A Piercing Light of Hope
by Marianne Brandon
Summary: 5 years later, Erik finds his last chance to win back Christine. The woman who can help is more of a burden than he expected, while obeying his demands yields even worse results than she had feared. There is an OC here, but hopefully not a Mary Sue.
1. Accidental Discovery

**A/N: Welcome to my first published fanfiction**—**I'm eager for reviews and suggestions! This has a combination of bothLeroux's original novel andKay's, and then of course the movie and the stage musical. This starts five years after the end of the story we all know, and I'm using the movie as a starting poitn, ****with the chandelier falling at the end of _Don Juan_. Another thing to note: I would assume that over the course of five years, even if a mob had destroyed Erik's lair, he would have returned and repaired it in that time. RandR please! I love reviews!**

**Ah, and also: Yes, I have an original characterin here named Marguerite. This is NOT, however, some kind of fateful, Mary-Sue type reference. I just like the name!**

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any characters and songs you are likely to recognize here.

"Look at it, my little pearl," Francois Gautier said, his voice filled with pride. "Fully repaired, and all mine!" He slowly inhaled the air of Paris, sighing with gusto. He looked at his daughter, Marguerite. "Well, what do you think? Are you ready to enter the great _Opera Populaire _for the very first time?"

She was too enthralled with the intimidating work of art to do anything but crane her neck, vainly attempting to see the topmost towers. No other structure matched this grand opera house, save for Notre Dame, perhaps. Stone angels and gargoyles stared down at her, impervious to time and resentful of her presence. Iron balconies, sculptures, and windowpanes were menacing, yet the stained-glass windows scattered here and there added much-needed color. Marguerite could only imagine how many rooms, hallways, and staircases there were intertwined inside. A person might get lost for the rest of his life. A strange chill gripped her spine for just half a second, yet it was the middle of spring and the morning mist was beginning to be burned away by the sun.

"It is beautiful, Father," she said at last. She smiled a little, not wanting to show her trepidation. It was a great privilege to accompany her father to his first day as the new owner, and she did not want to play any part in spoiling it for him.

Upon entering the vestibule, the painted, vaulted ceiling stretched upward toward the heavens, taking Marguerite's breath with it. A crystal chandelier, unlit but still sparkling, towered above their heads. A shiny marble staircase swept from two directions in the upper levels until it formed one grand set of steps that ended nearly at their feet. The entryway was lavish, colorful, but somehow bare. It had the lonely feel of a building empty for years—until recently. Her father paused once again to survey his new territory.

"Not the most cheerful atmosphere, of course," he said, echoing the young woman's thoughts, "but that will soon change when it's up and running again. The queues will be around the block, and I will make it the grand opera house it once was!" He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Ah, my dear Marguerite, we shall be ashamed of ourselves no longer! I cannot ever thank my dear Uncle Maurice enough for his inheritance."

He chuckled at his own morbid humor, but Marguerite felt a little sickened at his callousness. There was no need for her to be reminded, yet again, of being _nouveau riche_, especially when she never _had _felt ashamed of her family's social status before, even when they lived in a smaller village further out in the country. She walked out from under his arm, pretending to be interested in a sculpture set in a niche in the wall. She wished she hadn't come closer. It was a statuette of the saddest angel she had ever seen, and it made her feel worse to look upon it.

"Come, Monsieur Sylvain is waiting in my new office by now to give me some business advice." He beckoned her to follow him behind the staircase and down a smaller, dimly-lit flight of steps. The corridor that housed the offices held only a few burning candles, and their footsteps made dull thuds on the floor. Marguerite looked down. The carpeting was an ornate pattern of burgundy and brown, but badly worn. She wondered if her father would be replacing that, too, once the profits started coming in. They stopped in front of a great mahogany door, Gautier's name painted on the glass window. It was the only thing that looked new.

"My dear," he said, a little condescendingly, "I fear you will find our talk of business transactions and such quite dull. Why don't you run along and explore, get to know the opera house? It will become your second home before you know it."

Doubting his words and a little hurt at being so easily dismissed, Marguerite murmured some kind of agreement and turned to go back to the entryway. Truly, she was glad she would not have to endure sitting on a chair for probably hours at a stretch, having nothing to do but smile and be ladylike. It _would _be dull. But she was nervous about this place, utterly new to her, and she was resentful of her father treating her as if she wereten instead of twenty.

She climbed the enormous staircase, pausing at a landing to look down at the front doors. How this place must have looked in its prime! She imagined the crème de la crème dressed in their finest, flooding the _Populaire_ with their genteel laughter and oh-so-polite conversation. Soon she would be among them. She and her parents would sit in the very best seats, her father would be congratulated on his great accomplishment, and perhaps, at last, the young men would come to call? She pictured herself in a deep blue dress of satin and lace that set off her delicate, pale skin and made her gray eyes dazzling, with pearls in her ears and around her neck, her black hair piled on top of her head. In her mind, she held up opera-glasses, smiling and laughing at something a clever young Duke had just told her. With a start, realizing what a dream-world she had entered, Marguerite returned to life and ascended the rest of the stairs, smiling to herself.

She peeked at the massive stage from one of the boxes, noticing little remnants of the damage caused by the fire five years before. Very few people were around; in fact, the only one she metsince leaving her father's officewas a cleaning woman. She smiled and gave her a little bow, saying nothing.

_What am I doing here? I must be mad,_ Marguerite thought as she went up a spiral wooden staircase backstage, gripping the railing until her knuckles were white. The catwalk! She shut her eyes for a moment, wondering if she dared to further defy her fear of heights. She looked down from her place so far above the floor and decided against it. There was no one to see her if she fell. Instead, she went back down to resume her exploring on a safer level. Now, where were the dressing rooms?

After turning a few corners and hurrying down more hallways in semidarkness, she felt an itch of apprehension. She had not been keeping track of her footsteps—how was she to find her father's office again? How long had she been gone already? Aside from that, the air in the heart of the opera house felt very different from that in the atrium, where sunlight streamed in and color had surrounded her. Here, the very walls seemed to whisper warnings.

Her heartbeat sped up, and her breathing came shallow as she looked around in growing panic. She did not know where she was. Almost unconsciously she turned and ran, trying to retrace her path. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she blindly turned corners, hoping, praying, they were the right ones. She hurried toward another, wondering if it was familiar.

A great black form appeared just as she turned, and she smacked into it before she even noticed it. With a shriek she stumbled back and almost fell over,her heart nearly pumping out of her chest, her stomach in knots, and her arms alive with goose bumps.

Before her stood a man all in black evening dress, a vast cape flowing to his ankles. Half of his face was covered in a white mask that perfectly fit the contours of his face. He looked down at her with burning green eyes. Marguerite sucked in her breath, her lips opening and closing like a fish out ofwater. She was terrified, yet frozen in place, unable to move or even _feel _her feet. She knew who this man was.

The Phantom of the Opera stood before her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low and threatening.

"I'm lost," Marguerite said, still breathless."_Please _don't hurt me! I'm trying to find my way back to my father, and I…I meant no harm."

His one visible eyebrow dipped down as he scowled. "Stop cowering, you child. No harm will come to you if what you are saying is true."

"It _is _true, monsieur! Do believe me."

"Yet," he said slowly, looking all around the corridor, "I must wonder why else you would be here, deep within my opera house, if you were not looking for…_the Phantom_."

"I was not," she said, her voice shaking. But in the back of her mind, she wondered. She had been curious about the man-ghost since first hearing of him years ago, and shocked when her father announced he would be purchasing what had once been the Phantom's haunt. But by all accounts, the Opera Ghost turned out to be only a man—and dead.

"You will understand if I find that hard to believe." His tone was droll, but his expression was fierce. Marguerite wondered what horrors lay just beneath his mask. Her stomach twisted at the gleam in his eyes. Now she knew how the mice felt right before her cat, Beatrice, captured them. A sickening dread.

"Are you he?" she asked stupidly. Then she thought perhaps, she might play the part of being brave, even if what she felt was anything but. She smiled what she hoped was a charming smile, buther nervous, trembling lips must have betrayed her."Of course not. How can you be? Everyone who speaks of him says the Phantom is dead."

"Ah, little girl," he said, "you think I would not know how to escape them?"

She had no idea who was the _them _he spoke of, but said nothing else. Her legs were gradually weakening beneath her petticoats.

"I am here, always," he went on. "I am the _Opera Ghost_."

Marguerite hesitantly glanced over him. He did not appear as she had imagined, not like the legends that had been woven. A thin man, yes, tall and pale, but his face was not gaunt, taut skin, and his nose was there, a little crooked, but right where it should have been. Yet...what what was under the mask? She knew she did not really want to know.The uncovered half of his face might have been quite handsome, and his hair was glossy black.But it was not just hisoutward appearance.He _exuded _power, strength, and cunning. She knew even the greatest impostor could not copy this terrifying presence.

"You think I am an old stage-hand?"

"Perhaps an actor," she said, still playing the part and defying her fear—and him. "A trick. No doubt a silly joke to play ona newcomer. It's not very amusing, monsieur."

"You are no actress or dancer, else you would know that to resemble me is to beckon death, like black cats and walking under ladders." He smiled, his mouth twisting into what looked more like a grimace. "_Though the catwalks and rafters can be far more dangerous_."

_He has seen me,_ Marguerite thought. _He saw me backstage, he has been following me_. "It is true I'm not any performer. My father owns this opera house now."

The stranger frowned and took a step closer to her.

"_My _opera house!" He growled like a rabid dog and hissed like a snake, sending her knees knocking again. His arm swept his cape, and she wondered if he could swallow her in it. "Am I to find no peace in my life?"

"I can see now," she whispered, all courage fleeing her, "that you are who you say you are. Please let me return to my father's office, and I will never come back here again." She turned to go, but he immediately, deftly moved to stand in front of her, blocking her way again.

"You thought I would hurt you?" He looked straight into her damp eyes. "Why should I do that? Just because you are too curious and have _intruded upon the Phantom's territory?_" His voice grew louder until it was a roar that echoed down the halls. Marguerite shrank back but dared not try to escape him again. He paused, then said quietly, "Because I am the Phantom of the opera, this _demon_, I will kill you as I see you?" He smirked again. "You have heard too many legends."

Marguerite thought of Christine de Chagny, wondering if this man had really seduced her, as she had heard in whispers. Newspapers had announced her kidnapping, but once she returned with Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, it was hushed. The mystery seemed to close when announcements surfaced that the Opera Ghost had been found dead, floating facedown in the underground lake.Yet here he stood, looking at her with sad, treacherous eyes.

"I see," she said, for lack of better words.

"No you do _not_! You can't!" Marguerite took several steps back from him as his voice rose again, the shouting almost singing. "Tell no one what you have seen. _No one _must know the Phantom yet haunts the _Opera Populaire_. You are free, but if I learn you have informed someone, I _will_ kill you, yes, without hesitation! And little girl, I _will _find out. Now go!"

Without another moment's hesitation, Marguerite fled, still not sure where she was going. Down one flight of stairs and up two steps, around a corner, and through an arch—it never seemed to end. She absently wondered why this phantom never seemed to learn that murder was no solution to his morbid life. But before she knew it, there was a door to backstage! Tears of relief rained down her face, and she sat down on the floor and sobbed, unable to move for several minutes.

At last she took a final, shuddering gulp of air and opened the door. From backstage she went through the audience seating, out another door, and up several steps that led her straight to the sunlight-flooded atrium. Feeling safe at last, she paused to wipe her face, then continued on to her father's office and went in without knocking, so glad to be there she forgot her manners.

"Marguerite," her father said brightly. Another man sat in front of his desk and stood when he saw her. "Where have you been off to?"

"I was lost," she said timidly.

"Look at her, Gaston! As pale as if she's seen a ghost."

Marguerite was about to say, "I have!" But she thought of his warnings and stayed mute. When she tried to laugh instead, it came out stilted and hollow. Gaston turned back to business with Gautier, completely disinterested in the antics of a silly girl.

She walked around the office, observing the art and framed certificates on the walls. She looked up at the ceiling and noticed a grate, sending another chill up her back, like a cold finger tracing her vertebrae. Did he see them? Could he hear? Was he planning further disruption to the opera house as he had done years before? Marguerite frowned, braver now that she was in the presence of her father. There was little she could do if the Phantom tried to destroy Francois Gautier's dreams of glory and wealth, but she would do anything to make sure it never happened.


	2. Insatiable Curiosity

**A/N: Thank you, my first reviewers! I am so grateful for your wonderful comments, and they helped restore some of my confidence. FYI, I'm planning on this to be a long story, but I am going to do my best to make sure it's not just fluff and filler. I hope you enjoy this second chapter!  
**Disclaimer: See first chapter

* * *

"Well I can't say I find the situation very humorous," said Isabelle. "You are far too old to behave so childishly, running around the opera house just to _explore_ and climb about like a savage. To be perfectly honest, I'm a bit embarrassed."

"I'm sorry, _Maman_," Marguerite mumbled, pushing a needle in and out of her embroidery. Another piece for her trousseau that, it seemed, would never be put to use.

"Let her have a bit of fun," Gautier said, his jovial mood still carrying into the evening. "She is still a young lady, and I daresay it will only be a short time before she leaves us for good, wedded to some worthy fellow. Unless she falls in love with the opera first." He grinned playfully. "Would you like that, Marguerite? To be a great singer on the stage, like La Carlotta?"

Marguerite felt her stomach squirm when she heard the diva's name. Her father did not mention what the Phantom had done to La Carlotta's career. Marguerite wondered if he even believed it. Perhaps he thought she had left in yet another tantrum, or because of a dissatisfying salary. Yet somewhere, Marguerite had heard a story of Paris' own Opera Ghost, and how his antics had brought the famous, worshipped La Carlotta to her knees. Marguerite had been mildly interested, but more so upon hearing that the theater itself, Paris' treasure, had been shut down.

"Don't even speak of such a thing, Francois," Isabelle said. "It's vulgar. Daughters of polite society do not perform on the stage. They attend."

The thought had not even crossed Marguerite's mind; she could never become a performing singer. She enjoyed the activity, of course, at church and on her own. She hardly dared to sing unless she was alone, knowing she could not carry a tune. Her old friends used to ask her to stop. Still, it was a lovely thing to dream about, even as she made plans more suitable to her tastes and talents.

Whenever her _real _future came to mind, she had pictured herself married to a simple shopkeeper, perhaps, or a man of a little property, or even a minister. That was all before her father came into money. Now she observed the aristocratic young men of Paris and knew her father was very nearly their equal. But as they were still new to the city, she had met few of them thus far.

"It was only a little joke," Gautier said to his wife. "Although I believe I have an appointment tomorrow with some performers who will be taking the leads in the grand re-opening performance. Would you like to come along and meet them?"

"No, thank you," Isabelle said. "I am going shopping tomorrow, and it will likely take all day. And I must interview another maid. Louisa resigned after two weeks. Never told me why."

Gautier turned to his daughter. "Marguerite?"

Without a thought at all, she said, "Yes, Father, I will go."

"Marguerite! You were going to help me tomorrow," her mother scolded. Marguerite looked up from her sewing, meeting her mother's pewter gray eyes that matched her own. Had she just answered what she thought she did?

"Did I say I would?"

"Yes!" Both her parents answered.

"I want to go with Father," she said, almost mechanically. Heaven only knew why.

"Splendid," he said. "Eight o'clock tomorrow morning, then." He saw his wife's tight-lipped glare and added, "Oh, Bella, don't look so sour! I do enjoy her company. You must come as well someday."

"I will enter the _Opera Populaire _for a performance," she said firmly. "And a performance only. Everything else is _your _business."

"Very well," Gautier said with a lazy shrug.

Marguerite put her embroidery aside and rose to her feet, excusing herself for the night. She walked out of the room, her footsteps barely audible on the thick Persian carpeting.

Once in her room, she put on her nightgown, washed her face, and settled herself between the cool sheets with a book of poetry. The candle burned and dripped and slowly shrank over an hour, but her eyes barely moved over the pages. She still felt a little nauseated when she dared to look back on the day's events. The agony of her secret was almost too much to bear. Could she have dreamt it?

She never could have envisioned such a terrifying encounter on her own. The _Phantom! _She had stood before him and shook with fear, and yet left unscathed. Was he really the murderous fiend as in the stories she heard?

_He threatened to kill you_, a voice spoke in her head.

_But he didn't_, came another.

_He will, if you tell anyone about him_.

_Maybe he won't, and besides, I won't tell anyone_.

_Of course not_._ You're frightened to death_._ It isn't difficult to see what everyone fears_.

_Certainly_._ I've never been so petrified in my life_.

_Then why are you going back there?_

Marguerite looked up from her book, taken aback by her own thoughts. _Why, indeed?_

She heard footsteps coming up the stairs and held her breath. Her mother was whispering softly, indistinctly, and her father followed close behind. When she heard their bedroom door close, she pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed to put on her dressing gown and slippers. Picking up the candleholder, she crept out into the hallway and down the stairs, taking great care to move slowly so she would make no noise.

Finally, she reached the study. The shelves were still quite bare. Her father had not taken the time to fill them, though many were weighted with newly-purchased volumes, and a few older books from their old home. His desk was already cluttered with newspapers, contracts, and several other business papers Marguerite did not understand. She opened a few drawers, not yet sure what she wanted to find.

A pile of newspaper clippings caught her eye. Leaning closer, she held up the candle to read them better. As she glanced through them by the meager light, she noticed the phrases "_Opera Populaire_," "re-opening," and "Gautier." Each word made her eyes sweep faster over the papers. She picked up one that looked promising.

The article announced the restoration of the opera house, barely mentioning the disaster that created the need for repair in the first place. It was obviously from before her father had purchased it, as it announced that the structure would soon be up for sale. Another article reported the theater's purchase at a surprisingly low price by Monsieur Francois Gautier. The new owner had recently come into a fortune by inheritance from his uncle, Louis Jean-Baptiste Gautier, an entrepreneur in railroads, shipping, and other pursuits.

None of the articles mentioned the Opera Ghost, Christine Daae, or La Carlotta.

How had Marguerite first heard of it? She could not recall, but it was among the things at the forefront of her mind when they moved to Paris.

With a sigh of frustration, she put the clippings back in their drawer and shut it. Going back up to her room, she decided that if she were going to learn anything about this man-ghost, she would have to dig up the information herself. Whether she really wanted to or not was a question she was not sure she could answer. And if she _did _want to...she was not really sure why.

* * *

The next morning, Marguerite and her father strolled into the _Opera Populaire _as if they had been doing it all their lives. The grand structure still filled her with awe, and her father's pride proved infectious. She began to feel it herself, leaving little room for fear. The promised performers had not arrived yet, but the new secretary was there, a quiet young man who did not seem enthusiastic about his job. 

Marguerite asked her father to let her go off on her own, and he waved her away with a chuckle. "Don't get lost again!"

When the office door closed behind him, leaving Marguerite alone in the hallway, her anxiety returned. She clenched her eyes, filling with dread. What was she doing here again? She turned to go back into the office, but stopped herself, her hand on the doorknob. She did not want her father to think her a coward. When others mentioned the mysterious accidents of the opera's past, he ignored them, and she had quickly come to realize he did not believe in the Phantom at all. If she told her father she was nervous about meeting him, he might think her positively mad.

Breathing deeply, she set off, walking more unhurried this time, trying to keep a corner of her mind concentrated on the route she took. Perhaps she ought to have brought breadcrumbs to drop, like Hansel and Gretel, and lead her back when she was ready to go.

More winding corridors brought her to two wooden doors with "Chapelle" carved in the wall above. When she opened them, the sound echoed loudly in the little stone room. It was, indeed, a chapel, and one that had been empty of any human soul for a long time. Marguerite stepped inside, careful to keep one of the heavy doors ajar. It was dark and cool, and she wondered if it was truly a place of worship and prayer. How could anyone come here for peace? It seemed to chill her very heart.

The sun fought the overcast sky, weakly illuminating the stained-glass windows. Another sad angel looked at her from a shelf, and the marble Virgin Mary held her Child in that cold beauty that only sculpture possessed. Shivering, Marguerite turned to leave, but just as she reached for the door, it shut. She pushed it with her shoulder and struggled with the latch, but it would not open.

"Please, no," she whispered, and even such softly-spoken words echoed back, mocking her. She heard a scrape, like curtains brushing the wall, and looked behind her. In the farthest corner stood the Phantom, blending completely with the dark except for that glimmering white mask. Marguerite's breath caught in her chest, her stomach shrank, and she stepped back until she was against the doors.

She was going to die, right here, and there was no way out. She had accidentally found him again, and now her life was to be the price.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, the stone walls repeating the question until it faded into silence once again.

After the longest time, she murmured, "I don't know."

He came toward her then, stopping halfway. "I warned you, if you told anyone about me, I would kill you." His voice was fierce, but alluringly beautiful, every word transformed into a separate music note. Though she feared her impending death, Marguerite could not help noticing.

Her heart beat wildly, dizzying her. "I didn't tell anyone," she whispered. "I swear to you, I told no one."

"_Why are you here?_"

"Please, _monsieur_, I mean no harm at all. I just want to look around the opera house. I didn't _intend _to find you, can't you understand?"

His wrathful expression did not alter. "You don't belong here." He glanced away thoughtfully, as if considering what he ought to do to her.

Resentment rose up inside her she could not contain. "How dare you!" He turned back and locked his eyes with her, and she closed her mouth, bravery gone as quickly as it came. Did he feel anything _but _this dangerous rage?

"I have little patience with curious children," he growled.

"Nor I," she said softly. "But I am not a child."

"Yet you creep about my opera house, poking your nose into places you shouldn't." He turned his face from her again, and muttered, "When does it stop?" He appealed not to the crucifix against the wall or the Virgin Mary, but the statuette of the troubled angel.

Still shaking, Marguerite turned around and tried to open the doors again. "If you let me out of here, you'll be left alone, as you wish." The doors did not yield. When he did nothing but glare at her, she found herself asking, "Why this passionate hatred? Where does it come from? What good is it?"

"If you had lived as I have, and seen what I have, you needn't ask."

"You will not say."

"Why should I? Who are you but a silly little nuisance who strolls into the opera house like a queen, trying to make it yours when it never can be!"

"Then let me go! Why trap me in a room with you when you appear to so vehemently hate me?" He stepped closer, closer, until she could almost feel his breath on her face. Terrified to look away, she stared into two glittering green eyes that turned her blood almost solid with cold. Her respiration was not hindered, and yet she struggled for breath.

"I want to make sure you truly understand my warning. I want it to be…perfectly…clear." He was so close that, for a moment, she wondered if he would kiss her, and she pressed herself closer to the doors. She did not see his quick movement until a gloved hand was clasped at her throat. She sucked in air and held it, determined not to struggle.

"Never, _ever _go looking for me again." Just as he spoke the last word, one of the chapel doors swung open, and he pushed Marguerite out into the hall. Just as she regained her footing, it shut again. 


	3. The Grand ReOpening

**A/N: I was writing the chapters long before I started publishing this story, so the updates are coming fairly quickly. Alas, it won't be like that in the future. There are some very important details in this chapter, but not a lot of action. You'll see! Hope you like it...don't forget to review!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One 

It was difficult for Marguerite to keep herself from telling her father about seeing the Opera Ghost. He was so disappointed when she declined to join him at the _Opera Populaire _the next day. She spent it with her mother instead, calling on recent acquaintances, and in her room, writing letters to the friends she had left behind in the small town of Saint-Marie. Her mother was rather insistent on reducing Marguerite's contact with old friends, and it was with great reluctance that she obeyed, lessening the spirit and friendliness in her correspondence. She made tiny references to the Phantom of the Opera, but always in a lighthearted mood that would make no one think she was serious. But if he should intercept her mail…

Now she was being ridiculous. Shaking her head, she chased the fear away with thoughts of the dress that was going to be made for her—always a pleasant diversion. The grand re-opening performance at the _Opera Populaire_ was months away, but she wanted to start preparing early. She would be sure to be noticed in such finery! It was her first opera, too.

The months went by, late summer cooling into fall once again, the trees permitted a final performance of color before surrendering their crowns. All too soon, it was that rather unpleasant time of year after the leaves fell, but before the snow blanketed the world in sparkling white. Marguerite made several new friends in Paris, and two young gentlemen had come to call—once each, and no more. Her mother began to seriously ask her to consider convent life. Marguerite knew she could soon become an embarrassment to her parents—an old maid at twenty and the only survivor of five children. She vowed to flee to America if a year did not change things.

At last, the performance night arrived. It was more extravagant and stunning than anything she could have imagined. While trying to stay close to her parents, she was continually distracted and stared, in utter amazement, at the people flooding the opera house. The men in their best suits and hats, looking absolutely distinguished, greeted her father and shook his hand. The women were lavish, gorgeous creatures in silk frills and jewels. They smiled and nodded and twittered their refined laughter, each one smelling like a different flower.

"You are a fortunate lady, Madame Gautier," said a chubby older woman with smiling brown eyes. "Such a clever husband." She turned to Marguerite, "And what a lovely daughter." A few other women in their circle murmured their agreement.

Marguerite was pleased with herself—just a bit! She wore the deep blue dress of satin and lace of which she had dreamed for so long, and teardrop pearl earrings shone under a pile of black hair, curled just for tonight. Her eyes had transformed to the brilliant blue-gray of the ocean, and the effect was dramatic. Several heads turned as she walked by, but trying her best to be the most genteel lady, she did not look back. She recognized two other girls who had come with their families and greeted them warmly. Marcel, one of the young men who had come to see her, approached her and was quite solicitous, asking if he might call again a few days' hence.

"I shall look forward to it," she said coyly, with the sweetest little grin. Did they even guess her family was once at the bottom of middle class obscurity before being launched into the upper crust of Paris?

A few voices rose in volume above the others, and Marguerite looked up to see what it was. A tall, well-built gentleman of fair complexion and obvious wealth had just entered. On his arm was a demure young woman with dark brown curls and large eyes to match. Many greeted the couple as if they knew them, and Marguerite was more than a little self-conscious, having no idea who they were.

When a woman close to her gasped, "It is the Vicomte and Vicomtess!" her heart jumped to her throat, plunged to her stomach, and came back to her chest. Christine Daae! How could she dare return to the _Opera Populaire _after all that had happened to her? Marguerite only managed one more glimpse at the handsome pair before her mother tapped her elbow.

"It is time to take our seats," she said. Despite her usual strict appearance, her eyes shone and the corners of her mouth twitched upward. Marguerite knew her mother was every bit as excited as she.

Being the owner and his family, it was the best seat in the house, Box 5, from which she had looked down at the stage her first day there. Gautier sat at the edge, then Isabelle, and Marguerite closest to the exit. Revealing her inexperience, she leaned over the edge to look down at the people below. The mass of well-dressed humanity was an amazing sight. Isabelle pulled her daughter back into her seat, frowning in disapproval.

The lights dimmed, the audience was quiet, and the air itself hummed with expectation. The first notes sounded, and Marguerite was lost. She let herself be swept up in the music and the story, oblivious to anything else. One act passed without incident, then another. At the beginning of the third act, however, she found it more difficult to concentrate.

A tiny breeze stirred a few tendrils of her hair. She glanced behind her to see if her father had stood and was walking behind her, but he was still in his seat, and there was no one else there. Perhaps a box-keeper had walked by, she thought, returning her attention to the scene below. Within minutes, she had the unmistakable feeling of eyes boring into the back of her neck. Once again, there was no one there when she looked.

"Be still," her mother whispered in her left ear.

"I'm sorry," Marguerite said. But when she tried to listen to the music again, she heard whispering to her right, where no one sat. She did not catch specific words, but it irritated her that something should distract her from this experience. The first thing she thought of was, of course, the Phantom. Then she smiled in spite of herself. He couldn't walk through walls or become invisible. He was just a man—hadn't she crashed into him the first time she saw him?

She glanced around surreptitiously, hoping she would not be scolded again. Was there a window somewhere she had not noticed, opened and letting in a breeze? Her parents sat perfectly still, never detecting anything amiss. As suddenly as it started, the whispering stopped, and Marguerite finally felt like the three of them were alone in Box 5 again. Her experience with the rest of the performance was undisturbed, and when it was over, Marguerite was the first to offer a standing ovation, her face glowing with pleasure. She even removed her gloves so she could applaud more loudly.

"Quite the triumph, Monsieur Gautier."

"You're just what the _Opera Populaire _needed."

"Perfect choice for the opening performance. I imagine Mademoiselle Debeteaux will become as famous as La Carlotta."

The praise rained down on her father as they exited the performance hall. It was a long time before they left for home, sleepy and content. Or at least Marguerite was sleepy.

"It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life," she whispered to her cat, Beatrice, as she changed into her nightgown. "To think I've lived two entire decades without seeing an opera. Now I'm rather glad we've come to Paris. Perhaps it won't be so terrible after all."

As she curled up in bed with her cat snuggled against her, her mind remained alert, despite the exhaustion of her body. She wondered about the whispers, the almost tangible presence of another person behind them in the box. How could her parents have been so unaware?

_Could _it have been him? She had said nothing to them about it, keeping her promise to the Phantom never to reveal him—out of fear, of course. But not a single thing had gone wrong tonight, and after hearing stories of his sabotage, Marguerite was confused. If he was not causing trouble in the theater, what did he do all the time? Was the Phantom completely forgotten?

It seemed to be quite the possibility. Even the Vicomtess Christine de Chagny had been in attendance tonight, showing not a speck of fear. She had appeared so happy Marguerite would have never believed her to be the same woman who had been kidnapped by the Opera Ghost in the middle of a performance. She felt deeply interested in finding out what was fact and what was fiction among the scanty information she had garnered about the bitter man who haunted her father's opera house.

Unfortunately, getting information firsthand was a rather life-threatening endeavor.

* * *

The next morning, Marguerite awoke to an unusually quiet house. She dressed and went downstairs, finding only her father reading the paper over breakfast. The reviews of the opera were glowing, it seemed. He looked up and smiled. 

"Good morning, Marguerite. It was a success last night, my little pearl, an outstanding success!" He saw her wrinkled brow. "What is wrong?"

"Where's Mother?" She was never absent from the breakfast table, and usually up and aboutbefore anyone else.

"Ah, your mother is quite under the weather today. Not feeling well at all, terrible headache and upset in her stomach. She insists it isn't serious, but just wants to rest in a dark room for a while, and asked that the house remain as quiet as possible." He sounded as if he were giving orders. Then he asked,"Would you like to come with me this morning?"

It had been weeks since he asked her, and months since she'd actually gone. She paused to think. Marcel might come to pay her a visit…or he might not. With her mother ill, she had no one to accompany her to go calling upon her friends, and having no chaperone was out of the question. What else was there to do to fill her day, since she had no lessons and no chores? She might as well go with her father.

"I think I would like that," she said, offering him a small smile. She might go up to Box 5 and look around, but the idea gave her chills. She would stay close to her father today, wanting to share his excitement at the success of the night before. "Though it will be something of a shame to see the magic of last night all cleaned up and empty of an audience." _Theaters were meant to be filled with life_.

If she could have foreseen what was to come, Marguerite would have known to stay home that day.


	4. Kidnapped

**A/N: I'm so excited about the wonderful reviews! I love all my readers. Sorry about the cliffhanger. :evil laugh: Anyway, I thought I should start replying to a few individual reviews. **

Disclaimer: See first chapter

"My office!" Gautier shouted. He had just unlocked the door and stepped inside to see the place completely ransacked. Papers were scattered everywhere, a few torn into halves and quarters. Some ink bottles were on their side on the desk, and others were shattered against the carpet, staining it. The framed items hung crookedly, two or three broken on the floor.

Gautier stared around, his mouth open, breathing heavily in shock. He walked around his desk to see a knife stuck in the seat of his chair. He pulled it up and stared at it blankly. Marguerite gasped from the doorway. "I shall inform the authorities!" he bellowed, rushing out of the room, leaving his daughter behind in the dim hallway. She gawked at the mess, feeling numb. Her thoughts began to clear, and she frowned.

She knew.

Her anger was nothing like her father's, but it was enough to burn away most of her fear and some of her reason. Hardly thinking, she rushed further down the corridor. When she came to a set of stairs, she took the downward path. She knew not where she was going, but she was sure that she would find him. She flew down deserted corridors and descended every step she came to, opening a few doors to look inside. The few people who _were_ around the opera house that day mostly stayed near the stage, in the costume shop and repairing the sets, preparing them for another performance.

Marguerite's frustration increased with every minute of her unfruitful journey. A small cry of aggravation, almost like a wounded cat, escaped her throat after she had flung open the door and peered into another empty room. Had he known she would come after him for this? No, he would have had to know she was coming today, and since she had not done so for a long time, he could not even have guessed.

Could he?

The air was cooler the deeper she went, through a never-ending maze. She opened another door and found an abandoned dressing room. The only thing that remained was a pink ribbon on the floor, dusty and chewed by mice.

"_Where are you?_" she called out, slamming the door. Anger coursed through her, and hopelessness. She was lost again; she should have gone straight to Box 5 instead of following her stupid whim to look around at random.

A frigid but gentle breeze brushed past her face, and she jumped. She peeked around the corner to her left, but saw nothing. She turned back around...and there he stood.

"What is the meaning of this?" Marguerite screamed at him. "_I know it was you! _Why are you doing this to us?"

He looked back at her, his expression completely unreadable. Truly, he was surprised at hertemper, her significant lack of fear this time. When he remained silent, she kept speaking. "I have told no one of seeing you. My father has done nothing to harm you. I ask you again—why do you do this to us?"

"I want you out of here," he said softly.

"Well, you're not going to frighten away my father with childish schemes! His greatest dream came true when he bought this place, andyou, you _devil_, would wrest it away from us just to have it _all to yourself?_" She took a step back from him, a warning in her chest. She saw he was getting angry, but she could not seem to stop. "Well now I take back my promise. I'm going back up there to tell the police, and my father, that the Phantom of the Opera is alive and well in here!"

She turned to run back the way she came, but he reached out and grabbed the neckline of her dress to stop her. So quickly, she didn't have a moment to react, he snatched up her wrists and held them behind her, tight enough to bring her some pain. She stood completely still, her breath coming in little gasps.

"Words so hastily spoken," he said to the back of her head, his tone low and deadly, "are even sooner regretted." He pulled her a little closer, releasing one of her wrists to hold her neck. "And you, little girl, will have much to regret." He turned her around and pulled her along the hall. She protested and dragged her feet, but, out of nowhere it seemed, he pulled out a noose. Simply showing it was enough to gain her compliance.

"Where are you taking me?" Marguerite asked. He stopped to tie her wrists with the Punjab lasso.

"Scream as you like," he said. "There is no one close by to hear you." He jerked the rope, holding it close to her hands, and pulled her along beside him. "Keep in mind, I can just as easily strangle you with this as tie your hands."

_Then why not do it now? _Marguerite wondered. She shivered as they went down several stone stairwells, the air growing colder and damper with each step down. At last they came to level ground and kept going forward, through several chambers. She felt palpable fear once again. How reckless she had been! Now he was going to kill her, and she would never be found. She wished she had stayed back at her father's office, or better yet, at home. She should have stayed at home with her mother that very first day! She could have gone to the opera premiere and simply enjoyed herself, never suspecting…

He stopped and lifted a square out of the wooden floor. Marguerite looked down into the yawning hole—no doubt the entrance to Hell itself. She looked up at him and saw he was staring at her.

"Go on," he said, pointing to the trapdoor.

She took a small step back. "If you're going to kill me, please do it now and grant me some peace."

"_Go or so help me I'll throw you down!_"

As gently as she could with long skirts and bound hands, she sat at the edge of the hole and slid into it. The fall was short, and she landed on her feet, stumbling just a little. She scurried out of the way just as he jumped in after her. Once their footsteps stopped echoing, she could hear water. The underground lake? She had heard it existed beneath the opera house, but had refrained from asking about it, and was too afraid to try to find it.

He took up the makeshift leash again and led her to the edge of the water. In the few minutes of walking in silence, she looked out at the lake and thought she saw strange shapes and lights coming from below. She dared not inquire about them. They came to a boat, just big enough for two, where he untied her and ordered her aboard. He agilely hopped on after her and began to guide it through the waters.

Strange voices and musical whispers surrounded them, but were blended so perfectly with the water, Marguerite wondered if she was imagining them. How could there be something so beautiful in this cold, dark place far beneath the world? There was death around them as well; she felt it, almost tasted it in the air. When she looked up, stone faces glowered down at her from the matching walls. She should have heeded their warnings from the outside, when she came that first day. But it was so lovely...so dark and intriguingand hauntingly beautiful, she had to snap back to reality and remember she was being kidnapped by a madman.

The boat rounded a corner and she heard clanking chains and dragging metal. An enormous portcullis rose up out of the water, allowing them to pass under. As soon as the gondola touched the edge of another stone floor, the Phantom jumped out. He turned back to Marguerite, who still sat, shaking violently, on the floor of the boat.

"Come out of there," he said. She stumbled onto the shore, gaping all around her.

She had never before seen such aplace, like an elegant cave. Several steps up from the floor and against the wall stood an enormous organ, once proud but now in slight disrepair. Yellowing sheet music was piled around it, and other papers were scattered everywhere. Rich, dark velvet hangings were draped over broken mirrors, and everywhere there were candles. Black netting obscured a corner of the room, and a curving sofa sat to the right of the organ. One dark doorway stood on the left side of the room, daring anyone to pass through. Just to the side of it was a desk, jumbled with writing instruments, even more sheets, and a miniature stage with some broken figurines.

"You live here?" Marguerite could not imagine any kind of human being living out his life in this watery stone tomb, no matter how gorgeous it was.

"Yes," he said, "I live here." With one fluid movement, he removed his cape and stepped up to the organ. Marguerite held her breath, thinking—hoping—he would play. But he only stood against it and looked around, like a dark king surveying his domain.

"Why am _I _here?" she asked softly, keeping calm. Blind rage had not helped him, and she knew now it could do her no good. Perhaps even he could be swayed by reason and an unruffled façade.

"You are going to stay here until this place is emptied and left alone."

"That cannot be while Iam _here_, Monsieur. I would assume I am to be included with those you want out."

He growled. "When your father complies with my demands to close the _Opera Populaire _and never set foot inside it again, I will return you to the world of the living."

_The world of the living? _"I'm sure my father thinks I've just run off again. It may take some time before he misses me." When he did not answer, she sighed. "So I am your prisoner. Until he complies or you kill me."

He looked at her again, wondering if he should tell her. No, it did not matter, she had no right to know! Or did she? He had already known that he could never take her life. She was a rather lovely girl. She possessed nothing close to Christine's beauty, but her lovelines still deserved to live. Hadn't it always been his weakness? Jewels, artwork, animals...beauty of all kinds had swayed him before.Of _course _he could never let her know that. And lose his bargaining power? It was unthinkable, moronic.

Marguerite finally asked the question that had been hanging on her mind. "Why did you not ruin last night's performance?" He stared stonily back at her. "It wouldn't have been the first time."

He swallowed and took a few steps away from her, on the pretense of lighting a candle. "I thought I could give it a chance. I thought I could step aside, stay hidden, and let it go on."

"Can't you?"

Anger swelled up inside him again. "If Christine Daae cannot perform as prima donna, there is no reason for the _Opera Populaire_ to continue as if nothing had happened!"

_Then his love for Christine Daae surpasses his love for the opera house_, Marguerite thought. Out loud, she asked, "Do you not wish for _your _precious opera house to be as glorious as it once was?" She watched him with sad eyes, beginning to pity him. When he finally met her gaze again, his own was unblinking, and she saw the pain.

"It is meaningless without her," he said, his voice betraying nothing, his eyes revealing all.

"You must have loved her very much," Marguerite said.

"And I despise her! I gave her all I had, my greatest gift, and she used it against me, to betray me! I tried to teach her all I knew, and the moment she sees that wretched Vicomte, some silly boy from her childhood, her heart turns cold for me. He could give her _nothing _that I could, and I…I had to escape, like a common convict. But I returned, yes, and I shall _never _leave the _Opera Populaire_ again!"

Marguerite wondered if he had really meant to reveal all this to her. She could have wept for him, even being trapped down there _with _him. Now she had a clearer glimpse of what a dismal life he led. For the longest time, there was silence. He turned away and ran his hand along the side of the organ, but with no apparent intent to coax music from it. Marguerite wondered how long it had been since he played, if he had done it at all since losing this woman he loved so zealously. Out of simple curiosity, she wished she could ask him what it was about Christine Daae that made her so special, but he would only lash out at her. What would it take to learn his mysteries?

Why did she want to?


	5. Blackmail

**A/N: Okay you guys, I just couldn't let you all suffer another cliffhanger after the first few reviews of chapter 4! So here is chapter 5. I will _not _be updating twice in one day again, so enjoy this one time!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One 

Marguerite sat quietly, again wondering if she ought to speak just what was on her mind. Kidnapper or not, she disliked seeing him so restless and aggrieved. He kept his back to her, staring at the organ. In her mind, Marguerite begged him to play. The silence threatened to suffocate her. Besides...the Phantom was rumored to be a genius. What might the music of a man such as he sound like?

"I'm sure _she_ would not have wanted you to live like this," she said at last. He spun around, whether from her words or just their abruptness, she wasn't sure. She took a tiny extra breath before adding,"I imagine she would be ashamed of you right now." His eyes narrowed, nearly shooting sparks. She paused, wondering if she ought to ask another thing.

What did it matter?

"Did you _really _watch the opera last night? She was there. With her husband, of course."

His eyes widened.Had he become blind last night and unaware of it?How could he have not seen them? "Why did she come?" he blurted out.

"My father sent invitations to all the former lead singers of the _Opera Populaire_. At least, the oneswho still live in Paris, or nearby."

"She is still in Paris?"

Marguerite sucked in her breath, realizing the danger of what she had said. _Fool!_ "I imagine she is living on a grand estate somewhere outside the city. The Vicomte was with her. Many people recognized them, I'm surprised you didn't notice." She chewed her bottom lip, praying that he would quickly forget what she said, that it would not fuel his obsession.

"I saw _you_," he said. "You and your family, sitting in Box 5. The best seat in the house. _My _box," he added accusingly.

"Was it? Did you come in to watch? I thought I'd heard you. Well, I heard _something_. I assumed it was you."

"For a while," he said, a twisted, malicious grin forming on his face. "You were captivated."

"I'd never seen an opera before," she admitted.

"A wealthy family such as yours?" He snorted. "I find that hard to believe."

Marguerite kept silent this time and decided not to tell him of their recently amassed fortune. Oh, to take back what she had said about Christine! Suddenly, another question, this one hidden from even herself until now, came to mind. "My mother was ill this morning,but in perfect health before the opera. Did you do something to her?"

He looked disgusted. "Why would I go to the trouble to do that?"

Feeling foolish, Marguerite said nothing more about it. Instead, she looked around. "How long am I to be here?"

"I said, until your father agrees to my demands."

"That may be a difficult decision for him," she said dryly. She was feeling slightly less on-edge, beginning to think he had no real intentions to kill her. And it seemed he had already forgotten her hasty words about Christine being there once again, so close. "I love my father, but he also adores this opera house." When the Phantom's brow furrowed, she wondered if he had taken her sarcastic words too seriously. "Have you _sent _him your demands?"

He lifted his chin and went to his desk. In a moment he returned, holding an envelope. "My…colleague…Madame Giry, is no longer working at the opera house, so I shall have to deliver this myself. Once I make sure you cannot escape, of course."

"Might you just demand money?" she asked. "It seems you could use new mirrors, and it would be easier than my father simply walking away from the _Opera Populaire_. I did tell you it was a dream come true for my entire family."

The Phantom squinted at her as she stood in place and looked around some more. Had he taken the wrong girl somehow? When he first saw her, she had cowered before him, and now she stood so perfectly calm, casually asking about the demands for her own ransom. He almost wished he had the nerve to really kill her—another death might reaffirm the dangers of the opera house and drive people away for good. But then they would come after him again, and he could not bear to live through that one more time in his life—the chase, the flight, and the degrading act of hiding anywhere he could find.

She looked back at him, her face devoid of fear, her gray eyes shining with the light of the candles. "May I sit down?" He wordlessly gestured to the couch and she settled into it.

Marguerite could not explain this strange calm that settled over her. The place was imposing, and her host less than charming, yet the worst of her fear was ebbing away. She wanted nothing more than to be in the sunlight above ground, but she knew she had the patience to wait it out. She watched him move carefully around, rummaging around his desk, then disappeared through the doorway, into the little hallway. What did he do all day in this godforsaken place?

He reappeared, carrying several lengths of rope—none of them formed into a noose. Standing before her, he selected one carefully. She cringed, wondering what he had planned next.

"I imagine it is time for your father to know of my demands."

"And then come after you."

"Of course not. I certainly did not accredit _this_ letter to myself, and the handwriting is disguised." He pulled her up from the couch and tied her wrists again, behind her back this time. "But I can't let my bargaining chip get away, so you're going to stay right here until I return."

"Daughter or not, my father won't let you have the opera house for nothing."

"I'm sure having his child back safely will be worth the tidy sum he paid for this place."

"Even if you make him believe someone else is making the demands, how do you know I won't tell him it was the Phantom who kidnapped me?"

"_Erik!_" he shouted at her. The name bounced off the walls and reverberated over the waters. "My name is Erik." He would not be a namelessbeing to her. She had to know exactly whoshe was dealing with, and who she had to fear. Inwardly he cursed himself. Taking her for ransom seemed like a simple solution, but he saw it now as a purely idiotic plan. His rash actions had sealed his fate, and there was no escaping this time. But he would sooner drown himself for real than let her know this.

"If you let me go without sending that letter," Marguerite said, "I will not say it was you."

He looked at her sulkily. "Why?"

Again glancing around at her surroundings, she said, "I pity you, trapped down here with nothing but bitter memories and hatred."

"And my face," he muttered, only half wanting her to hear. "One must never forget that."

She pretended not to listen. "I suppose it's time someone showed you some compassion."

He lashed out at this. "I don't need your compassion! I don't need your _pity!_"

She frowned. "I would imagine you, of all people, would desire compassion and understanding above all else. You do realize, it's not easy to think of you _loving _anyone. Even if you hate her as well."

Erik sat hunched over, gripping the remaining rope and envisioning what he could do with it. His blood boiled, but he said nothing. He didn't like this girl. She was quite clever, and she knew it. And insufferably stubborn, though she had not put up a struggle since they arrived at his "home," and instead waited patiently for whatever fate had in store for her. Or what _he _had in store. He clenched his teeth, trying to think of what to do. A wave of pain washed over him, and he shuddered, trying to hold it back. Christine was there last night! So close, and he had missed her. He glanced at Marguerite. He might yet have some use for this one…

"Do you really have a choice?" Her quiet voice broke into his thoughts. "I never tell secrets."

He laughed without humor. "You would have told mine if I had not brought you here!"

"That's true," she admitted. "I don't want anyone shattering my family's dream. But now that I have seen the way you live…" She sighed. "I don't know. I suppose I cannot bear to see a hurting soul. But really," she said, hesitantly this time, "do you need to have the _entire _opera house to yourself? It's very large. You could share it." She felt like a child again, coaxing a friend into sharing her playthings.

He buried his face in his hands, wishing he could shut his ears to her. Why had he brought her down there in the first place? She was too honest, she made too much sense. He wanted Christine's credulity, her blind acceptance—at least, she had them at first. He did not want to see the _Opera Populaire _alive with music again without her. Sometimes he wished he could erase all memory of Christine Daae; sharing his love, his music with her was the greatest mistake he ever made. What a fool he had been, and what a fool he was still!

Marguerite watched him fight her words and his inner turmoil. She had not intended to cause him so much pain, but she meant everything she said. Slowly, he stood and went to her, crouching down until they were eye-to-eye.

"If you do one thing for me," he said softly, but not at all kindly, "I will remain, but let the opera house in peace. Your father may continue to operate it."

Her heart beat faster as she wondered what he would demand, but thrilled when she heard his acquiescence. "What must I do?"

"Tell me all you can find out about Christine Daae. Bring me back any information you garner, and I will spare your 'family dream' as you call it."

She stared back at him, her eyes enormous. Oh, damn her foolish tongue! If only she hadn't told him about seeing Christine at last night's performance! She spoke freely of people she did not know, while refusing to disclose anything about her own family. Why had she spoken of it at all? She closed her eyes, unable to look at him.

She couldn't take back her words, and she could _not _let him destroy the opera house. Tears came to her eyes and threatened to push their way out. She was going to pay very dearly for her folly. And Christine, how would _she_ pay?

"I will do as you ask, Monsieur."

_What have you done, you stupid girl? Why did you have to tell him how important this cursed building was to your father? How many other lives will you ruin before this is over? He _owns_ you now!_

His lips twisted back into their sinister grin. "Good. Now I will show you the way out of here, andhow you can come back. Remember, if you expose me, you will get far worse than you bargained for." He untied her wrists and led her back into the boat. On the opposite shore, he showed her an iron lever mounted onto a stone pillar. "Pull this, and I'll know you are here and will comefor your news. But _do not _come unless you have any!" It was difficult to keep his dark joy hidden. Christine may yet be his!

Marguerite's tears continued, more for Erik and Christine than for herself. What kind of man could still be so consumed with a woman? What if Christine found out about this bargain? Although Marguerite did not see how, she was still afraid. Yet she had to do this, or she and her family could be forced to return to Saint-Marie in ruin. It would be all her fault, and she would never forgive herself.

"Pay attention," he said as he led her up, ever upwards, through corridors and unfamiliar chambers. Marguerite's head spun. How was she going to remember how to get there again? She was quite sure he was taking her back a different route from which they came. Sure enough, when they came to a few steps that led to an enormous grate, he pushed it up and stepped into the chapel where they had met the second time.

"I don't believe it," she murmured.

"Now get out of here. Bring me whatever you find. I advise you take less than a week."


	6. Lies and Desperation

**A/N: I wasn't planning on updating tonight, but since I haven't been getting much response from the last couple of chapters, I decided to add another one and see what happens. I hope those who do read this can put up with a few Erik-free chapters for the sake of plot and character development!**  
Disclaimer: See Chapter One!

Marguerite found her way back to her father's office and foundhim there with several gendarmes. One nodded politely and took notes as Gautier ranted, and two others looked through the disaster of a room. He did not notice his daughter for several seconds. When he finally did, his voice grew louder, but Marguerite knew he was relieved to see her, just the same.

"_Where _have you been? I thought you'd been kidnapped! I sent out an officer after you and he should have been back to report by now."

Thinking quickly, Marguerite said, "I thought I noticed someone else down the corridor after you left, and I went there to see for myself. I got lost again."

"Child, don't you realize how dangerous that was? You could have been killed! There's obviously a lunatic in this opera house, and a young woman like yourself runs off on her own."

The officer cleared his throat. "Beg your pardon, Mam'selle Gautier, but what _did _you see?"

"Oh, ah…" Now why had she said that? "A man, with…brown trousers." She swallowed, trying to think of something else. "I think he had light hair." She felt sick at her deceit, but the truth would be even more disastrous.

"That could be anyone," her father groaned. He turned to one of the gendarmes. "What do you say about this?"

After clearing his throat again, the officer said, "Well,Monsieur Gautier,right now it's rather difficult to tell you anything definite. Have you noticed anything that is missing for sure?"

"No. As far as I know, everything is still in here, but it's either been broken or moved. I haven't looked over it all yet."

"So the vandal was probably not searching for anything. The knife in the chair would indicate some sort of warning. Perhaps he only wanted to frighten you, to put you on your toes, as you should be from now on, until we catch him."

"Yes, yes," said Gautier. "It was probably someone who wanted the opera house, someone I beat to the price." His words came increasingly faster. "Or someone who disliked the performance last night, or an actor I turned down for a job, or a patron who thinks he's not getting his money's worth. It could be anyone!"

Marguerite hung back to watch the scene, wishing she could disappear, just sink into the floor and not be seen again. She hoped she would not break out in a cold sweat, as she often did when she was ill or had nightmares. Her life seemed to have become a miserable blend of both.

"I would suggest, messieur, that you take the day off, until tonight's performance, if your presence is indeed required. If he is still here…well, it may be very dangerous for you."

"No low-class vandal is going to scare me away from my business! You have _no idea_ how hard I've worked to get here!"

Marguerite held back a snort. Inheriting a fortune was hardly immense work.

"I understand that, messieur, but you must think of your safety." He paused to glance at Marguerite. "And that of your daughter. She ought not to be here at all, with the possibility of someone so dangerous still around."

Gautier looked at her, and his expression softened. "Very well. I will take her home, and return to help you and your men sort this out, shall I?"

Just then, the officer who had been sent to find Marguerite came jogging down the hall, breathless and pale.

"I cannot find her, messieur! There is no end to this place. Everywhere I looked, I—" He finally noticed Marguerite. "Mam'selle! I am so relieved to see you came back safely!"

"Did you see anyone?" Gautier asked.

The young officer's whiteness changed to a humiliated flush. "No, messieur. But at every turn, there were shadows…"

Marguerite closed her eyes and held her breath. _Please, no. Not now._

Gautier sighed. "Is this the best the Paris police can do? Little boys frightened by ghosts who aren't even there?" The officer's blush deepened. Marguerite felt a little sorry for him, despite being on pins and needles herself. Her father took her elbow. "Come, Marguerite, time for you to go home where it's safe. _I _will return to see that they are doing their duty." The older gendarme cleared his throat once again, looking slightly miffed. Marguerite tried to cast him an apologetic look as her father led her down the hall, up the stairs to the atrium, and out the main doors.

Once outside of the massive theater, she gulped in the smell of Paris.The sun, the cool autumn breeze—she could not get enough. It seemed like an entirely different day from when she and her father had entered it earlier, but no. It had only been a matter of hours! Not thirty minutes ago she had been climbing cold, dusty stairs in another world with the Phantom—Erik—and now she was under the protection of her father and the bliss of daylight. She turned and looked back up at the opera house. It was still gorgeous and imposing, and now she knew the secret it had warned her against during her first visit.

_Perhaps I shall always regret my refusal to heed the warnings_, she thought. Still...she was leaving unharmed, though with a mission she detested, and a fascinating divergence from what a more_normal_ day would have contained.

The carriage ride home was nearly silent on her part. Gautier, on the other hand, sputtered and fumed under his breath about the audacity of common criminals and the ineptitude of the Paris police force. He was not _really _speaking directly to her, so she just stared out the window without worrying about being disrespectful. Her heart was only now beginning to calm down, and she still felt ill at what she had done. She wished she could never return to the _Opera Populaire_, but she had to, now. Again and again. She had made a deal. A deal with the Devil, it seemed.

After another passage of eternity, the carriage pulled up in front of the house. Gautier helped his daughter out and escorted her inside the front door. Once he informed her he would return later that afternoon, he left again. Marguerite immediately went up the stairs to her mother's bedroom, the door still shut, and hesitated. She had to talk to someone, but what could she possibly tell her mother about what had just occurred?

Nothing.

With a shuddering sigh, she turned away. Her mother was ill, and should not be disturbed, after all, especially when all Marguerite wanted to talk about was...nothing in particular. What else would it be? Her mother would notice a difference in her; she would doubtless take inMarguerite's sudden pallor and new nervousness, and ask questions. Isabelle would tell her husband it was getting unhealthy for their daughter to come to the opera house with him. She had to stay home with safer, more feminine pursuits.

Marguerite entered her father's study, inhaling the ever-lingering scent of cigars and musty books. She curled up in an armchair and allowed her emotions to wash freely over her. She had failed her family, and they did not even know. She had tried to better the situation and only sunk deeper. If she fled, she would still leave her father with the consequences. That horrid mancould destroy the opera house, and lay waste to everythingFrancois Gautier had acquired for himself, and his dreams.Yet how could she possibly comply with the Phantom's wishes?

_Erik_. _His name is Erik_.

What information would he want about Christine? What diabolical scheme was he plotting? Even so, despite beinghis prisoner, Marguerite could not block all compassion from her heart. How had he come to be the man he was? A lonely life in darkness, and he had lost the one light that could pierce it. Still he clung to that light, and now Marguerite was a dangerous part of the equation for getting it back. She pitied Christine for what she had unwittingly done. What was it like to be loved so obsessively by a man—a man as violent and tortured as Erik?

A pain in her chest grew as hopelessness and despair inundated her being. So absorbed was she that she did not even hear the door open, or the startled gasp of the maid.

"Mam'selle Marguerite?" Adele stepped quietly inside. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Marguerite hastily sat up, embarrassed at being caught in such a vulnerable state—by the maid, no less. Before she said no, she stopped herself. _Could _Adele help her? She was hardly much older than Marguerite, but she had lived in Paris all her life.

"Perhaps there is!" Marguerite jumped up from her chair and clasped the other girl's shoulders, not realizing how Adele drew back at the wild gleam in her eyes. "What do you know of my father's opera house?"

Adele laughed before she could catch herself. "Why, mam'selle, I have never even seen the inside of it!"

Marguerite shook her head. "No, I mean what happened before he bought it. The sabotages?"

"You speak ofMlle Daae's kidnapping, then! I know so little, mam'selle. It is not my place, you see.I just know that on a night she was set to perform, Mlle Daae was suddenly swept off byanother man in the opera. Her fiancee had to rescue her, and the kidnapper died years ago."

Realizing she was still clutching Adele, Marguerite let go of her, and a little bit of hope as well. This was nothing she had not already known.She turned away, placing her fists to her eyes. How could she obtain what she needed without revealing her secret? "I need to find out about Mlle Daae. I mean, the Vicomtess de Chagny."

Adele shrugged, looking quite ashamed. "I am truly sorry, mam'selle. If my previous employers had known them, I might be able to help you. But I cannot. I'm sorry." She paused, waiting for Marguerite to say something else. "If there is nothing more I can do…"

"No, thank you anyway, Adele." When she had gone, Marguerite moaned loudly. "What am I going to do?"

With nothing better in mind, she went back to the desk drawer that held the newspaper clippings she had read before. Perhaps, she desperately hoped, she had missed one that held information she could deliver. After glancing over them all twice, she put them back, thoroughly discouraged. All business and personally interesting for her father only.

Then an idea burst into her mind that made her gasp with the suddenness of it. The social news in the paper, the gossip columns! Everyone who was _anyone _in Pariswas mentioned in it at least once in a while. She burst from the room and down the hall.

"Adele!" She momentarily forgot her mother was ill and wanted silence. "Adele!"

"Mam'selle?" Adele peeked her head out of the parlor.

"What did my father do with this morning's paper?"

Adele blinked once before answering. "He asked me to dispose of it. I believe Cook used it in the stove today."

Marguerite closed her eyes in frustration. Her last hope was gone! She _did _have a week to find out something—anything—but she was not off to a very good start. Not only that, but she had a terrible feeling the _quantity _of information was of great importance to Erik.

Seeing how distressed Marguerite was, Adele said, "Let me make sure," and went off to the kitchen, swinging her duster as she went. When she returned, her remorseful expression was practically frozen in place. "I am sorry, mam'selle, it is gone. Was there something very important in it?"

"No, not very," Marguerite said, turning to make a slow retreat to her bedroom. _Nothing but my life_. She closed the door behind her and moved to gaze out the window of her bedroom at the quiet, leaf-strewn street below. If only everything was as perfect as it looked! Her mind began to wander, her body still standing in one place. She did not know how much time had passed when Adele knocked and peeked her head in with an offer for lunch, which was gently refused.

Marguerite looked at the clock. Only one in the afternoon? It seemed as if she had passed through several months in that underground prison. If she had not let her words come without thinking, if he had not made that bargain, she would not be looking back on her time in the Phantom's _den_ with such terror—just a fearful interest, and thankfulness she would not have to return. But if she were Christine Daae, she would probably never see the light of day again, once he had her in his clutches. She shivered, immenselyglad that she _wasn't _the Vicomtess de Chagny.

Her life was tied in enough knots. Could she possibly untangle them, or would it take a knife to cut them out?


	7. Fulfilling Her Bargain

**A/N: Since this story is being written at breakneck speed, I guess it's time for an update! I took some advice and drastically shortened the following section, so this is the last Erik-free chapter for a while. BUT it is very important, I promise, and there will probably be another update very shortly. Until then...  
**Disclaimer: I wish he was mine, allll mine! But sadly, no. So don't sue me.

Marguerite wandered around the house like a ghost, pale and aimless. She tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. Even her cat, Beatrice, was no comfort to her. She sat to write letters, and had no words. She even went to the painting that had stood on its easel, abandoned for the past month, but the only picture that came to her mind was of a menacing, dark-haired man in a gleaming white mask...and piercing eyes. She had seen his profile—he was almost handsome—but what disgusting secret lay beneath the veneer? _Probably his soul_, she thought bitterly, trying in vain to distract her mind and turn her thoughts down another course. It was too late. She had not seen his face, but she had seen into his heart, and it brought the feeling of a stain on her own. She could hate, resent, and fight him for what he was doing, but she could never let go of this sympathy—it bound her to him, and she loathed it.

While making another attempt to read in the parlor, Marguerite heard soft, slow footsteps. She went out of the room to see her mother, dark under the eyes, her cheeks flushed, but smiling a little.

"I was tired of lying in bed and thought it time I came down," Isabelle said. "You see, I'm feeling much better." She stopped in front of her daughter and frowned. "I would have expected you to be with your father today. Have you been home all this time?"

"Oh," Marguerite said, thinking of yet another lie. She was sure her father would not have wanted to tell about the vandalism and upset her mother. "He brought me home at midday."

"I see." Isabelle looked as though she were about to ask something else, but changed her mind. "Come sit with me while I take some tea." After calling Adele, the two of them went to sit in the parlor. Marguerite further inquired about her health until she was satisfied her mother was fine. They sipped the hot, sweet liquid and she tried to keep her attention on the conversation, but her thoughts were always elsewhere. The rest of the day became a blur.

* * *

The next morning brought fierce sunlight and a clear blue sky, both of which renewed Marguerite's hope, if only justa little. At breakfast, she watched her father with hawk-eyes, waiting for him to finish the newspaper and leave for the office. He lingered over ham and croissants, but at last he stood, wished wife and daughter a pleasant day, and was off. Soon after, Adele came to clear away his breakfast dishes. She picked up the newspaper, glancing at Marguerite, her eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Marguerite stared back, wide-eyed, and gave a tiny, sharp nod. Adele smiled a little before leaving with the paper and dirty dishes. When Isabelle left to write a few letters, Marguerite dashed off to the kitchen. 

"Good morning, mam'selle," Adele said, smiling. She picked up the paper, neatly folded, and handed it to her.

"Thank you, Adele. If you could please make it a daily habit…"

"Certainly, mam'selle."

Marguerite took it to her room and skimmed through in search of the gossip columns. She thought she saw Marcel's family name and stopped to read. His mother, Madame Celine D'Aubigne, had gone to a grand tea yesterday where several other women with familiar names were present. Marguerite scanned the rest of the columns, and her heart skipped a beat when her eyes snatched up _Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny_. The article only mentioned they had attended the races last weekend with other people of importance whose names Marguerite did not recognize—except her parents. When had they been invited to _this_ event?And why had Marguerite never been notified or asked to attend? A chance had slipped away without her knowing it!

Though it offered little useful information, she carefully tore out the article. At least it was _something_, and she certainly needed _something_.Turning upatthe shore of those scary, murky waters with no news at all seemed, at least to Marguerite, a very foolish thing to do.She returned the rest of the paper to the kitchen for disposal. Perhaps over a few days she would learn more about the woman, this Christine de Chagny. Marguerite shuddered, feeling as if she were making sacrifices to appease some pagan deity.

Half an hour later, she was still sitting in her room, trying very hard to memorize poetry to keep her mind off of all else. Adele had to knock twice at her half-open door to say, "Mam'selle, your piano instructor is here."

Marguerite gasped and sprang to her feet. With all that had happened, she hadutterly forgotten it was the day for piano lessons. They were yet another aspect of upper-class life her mother had thrust upon her to disguise their middling origins. She forced herself to be patient as she sat at the instrument, wondering if she would ever get it right. Music seemed to be still one more talent she apparently lacked. Her teacher spent fifteen minutes of the hour-long lesson scolding her for not practicing enough. Isabelle had overheard the maestro's tirade, and, after he left, she went to her daughter and ordered her to practice until lunchtime.

At last, fingers aching, Marguerite emerged from the parlor, feeling a slight sense of accomplishment. She was eager to curl up at her bedroom window again to read, but it seemed never to be. As soon as she was settled in the chair after lunch, she heard a carriage rattle down the street and stop in front of the house. Yes, from the sound of it, it was definitely _her _house.She peered out the window just in time to see Marcel hop out of the carriage.After quickly rearranging her hair in the mirror, she hurried out of her room.

At the top of the stairs, she listened intently as Adele opened the door and Marcel asked to speak to Madame Gautier. Just as he was asking for permission to visit with her daughter, Marguerite came down the stairs, looking curious and quite innocent, as though never expecting anyone to come to call upon _her_. Marcel's nervous, prim face broke into a laughably ridiculous smile, stretching his mouth a little further than one might expect, his eyes never reflecting the change by so much as a twinkle. Marguerite found herself hoping it was not his normal smile.

Isabelle looked at the both of them for a long time before finally turning to her daughter. "If you would like to go into the parlor, I have no objections, provided you both conduct yourselves properly."

"Yes, Mother," Marguerite said. She looked up at Marcel without expression and led him into the next room. After a few moments of awkward silence, she said, "Quite a lovely day today."

"Quite," said Marcel. "Did you enjoy yourself at the performance the other night? I should have liked to speak with you afterwards, but there were so many in attendance…"

"I liked it very much," she answered. Inside her mind, she wanted dearly to laugh and skip around the room, so thankful was she for this opening. "Did you see, erm, the Vicomte and Vicomtess?"

"Yes," he said, trying to hide his surprise at the question. Understandably, he had not quite expected something like it.

"Are you acquainted with them?" Oh, goodness, she could not sound too eager! Surely that would be suspicious.

"My family has known the de Chagnys for years," he said, sitting up a little straighter, another smile looking rather self-satisfied, just as unpleasant and unattractive as his other smile.

"How wonderful. Then you have met the Vicomtess, formerly Christine Daae?"

His smile dropped from his face as though it was a stone, and Marguerite wondered what she had said wrong yet again. "Of her…we rarely speak," he said.

"What is it?"

"Well…naturally the de Chagny family was not exactly pleased when Raoul married Christine Daae." He laughed. "A common chorus girl! I can't imagine how _my _family would react if _I _had done something so disgraceful. Oh, she is a most pleasant woman," he said, seeing a shadow of distress passing through Marguerite's eyes, "and she has got along well as Vicomtess. But it is still not _really _her place, you see. Of course you see."

Marguerite stared at her hands, absent-mindedly twisting a handkerchief she had picked up from the side table. She had to wonder how would Marcel treat her, how would _any _of those people she had seen at the opera treat her, if they knew where she had really come from, what her family's financial situation had been mere months before. Poor Christine Daae, who escaped a madman to marry into a society that never completely accepted her.

"Of course the family is treating their son very well, for his father's sake," Marcel added, jarring Marguerite from her reverie. She looked up at him, her eyes enormous.

"Son? The Vicomte and Vicomtess have...a son?"

By now, Marcel was looking much more outwardly puzzled at her eagerness for this information, or her strangealarm upon hearing of a de Chagny child. "Yes. Armande, I think, is his name. Two years old."

Her heart pounding, Marguerite realized she could not tell Erik this, although it was the kind of information he was most eager for. It was what he had in mind—surely he did not care if Christine had been at a horse race a few days ago.Anything else, not this.A man so obsessed would be livid to know she had borne another man's child, even if it was her husband's, and Marguerite was sure to bear the brunt of his wrath if she was stupid enough to tell him.She placed her hand on her cheek, trying to gather her scattering thoughts. When she looked at Marcel again, she saw the concern on his face and smiled as pleasantly as she could. She steered the conversation to a much safer topic, just as her mother came into the room to chaperone.

* * *

"A very charming young man," Isabelle said calculatingly. 

Marguerite stifled a sigh. Marcel had not been gone ten minutes and already, she was sure, her mother was making wedding plans. She was in for a disappointment, then. Marguerite was not very interested, at least not in Marcel, and certainly not at the moment. Presently, all she wanted was to keep her life from crumbling to pieces.

"Don't you think so?" Isabelle prompted when she received no work from her daughter.

"Yes, I suppose," Marguerite said. "Estelle thinks so too," she added, referring to a girl she had recently begun to consider a close friend.

For a moment, Isabelle was silent, then said carefully, "Marguerite, you ought to stop going to the opera house all the time. I'd rather you concentrate on your studies as a young lady. You have a lot of catching up to do, you know, and I am determined you will not be left behind.I am hiring another instructor; this one will teach you the latest social dances. When the Christmas parties begin, you will be able to dance as well as the ladies who have been doing it all their lives."

Marguerite kept her head down, pretending to focus on her sewing. She felt as though a knife had been plunged deep into her body, again and again, and her life was slowly leaking out. What was she going to do now? She had to get away once in a while, for all their sakes! If her mother only knew.

"Marguerite, did you hear me?"

"Yes, Mother," she said, her voice quivering a little.

"Your piano lessons must improve as well, but I am very pleased with your sewing and painting. We can't obtain lessons in Italian—I don't know of a trustworthy teacher yet." She paused. "Do you understand what I am saying?" She leaned forward in her seat and spoke in a low, confidential tone her daughter had never heard from her before. "This is a great opportunity we have been given, Marguerite, to advance ourselves. You must know this. We cannot waste it."

Never before had Isabelle spoken so candidly. Marguerite could have wept, knowing her mother was right, and hating that she had to sneak behind her back to fulfill her own duty. Thank God Erik did not know of their precarious social position! It was bad enough he knew that the _Opera Populaire _was so dear to them. What if he found out _why?_

"It's all right, Mother," she said in a falsely assuring voice. "I know this is important. I would never want to disappoint you." _Though I am very likely to, no matter how hard I try otherwise_. She returned to her needle and thread, still speculating how to keep her agreement with Erik.

_I will have to sneak out, _Marguerite thought. _At night, I must go there_. There had to be some way inside after the building was locked up and vacant. It was so massive, there was no way it could be completely secure. Yet there would be gendarmes around after what had happened. She shivered, wondering if she _would _have to break in through some drastic means. She doubted she had the the nerve to try, but when it came down to it...Well, there really was no choice, was there? There seemed no end to her dilemmas, and no way to make things easier.

"I am looking forward to Christmastime," she said aloud, irrelevantly, the first thing that came to her mind. It might have been true; it could prove a decent distraction, at any rate.Isabelle only smiled, not suspecting a thing.


	8. A Nighttime Visit

**A/N: Here is the very-soon update, as promised! Also as promised, Erik is here...and even more so in the next one, so rest easy. That is, if you were worried. Anyway, read on! And review of you love it. If you don't love it, why the heck are you reading it?  
**Disclaimer: See chapter one!

* * *

Marguerite waited two more days, but learned nothing else. Though her information was pathetically meager, she decided it could not be put off any longer. She looked tired and drawn, so her mother insisted she get to sleep early. She got in her bed fully dressed and lay in the dark until her parents climbed the stairs, whispering in serious tones. It was not time yet. She remained until there were no more lingering pedestrians outside, no carriages to notice her in the streets. An hour or two she waited restlessly, finally getting up and putting on her shoes and cloak. With the tiny newspaper article folded up in her glove, she left through the back door in the kitchen.

The weather had grown cooler in the daytime, but at night it was biting. She looked up at the sky, overcast and lacking in stars. She did see the moon through the sheen of clouds, almost full and fuzzy, like a light shining through a thin curtain. With a deep breath for courage, she hurried off through the fog toward the opera house. The dark, damp streets were frightening and eerily empty. It was not a part of town where many paupers slept in doorways, or where prostitutes sold their wares, but as she hurried alongher way,keeping to the widest streets she could, occasionally she peeked down an alleyway to seethe piles of garbage moving. Her heart pounding out a frantic cadence, she kept her head down,hugging the sides of buildings and avoiding the light like a cockroach. She could not help hating herself a little bit.

To her dismay, several policemen were strolling about the main entrance. She stopped and hid in an alley across the street—blessedly empty—to think about what to do. Hadn't she seen a grate that led into the opera house from the outside? Perhaps it was only wishful thinking. She shivered and touched her nose; even through her gloves, it felt nearly frozen. So were her ears, though her cheeks were nearly aflame.

Knowing she was long past the option of going hometo wait until later, she hurried around to the back, where the ballet dormitories were attached to the _Opera Populaire_. She eyed the windows, wondering if she dared to enter through one of them. Creeping closer, she searched with ever-increasing anxiety for some entrance. When she heard the clicking footsteps of an approaching gendarme, she dashed to a dark corner and crouched against the building, shivering from both chill and fear. The footsteps passed her and faded around the block.

Stepping away from her hiding place, Marguerite slunk around the wall until she saw what she hardly dared to hope for—an enormous iron grate, almost like bars on a prison window, but there was no grate. With a great struggle, she lifted the rusting metal enough to let herself through, trying to keep it quiet when she put it back down. She had done it! Now that she was inside, it seemed surprisingly easy. Too easy. Something was bound to go wrong; the hardest part was still ahead of her. She walked down a narrow stone hallway, not any warmer than the outside, and passed through a heavy wooden door into a more familiar corridor. In a matter of minutes, she found the chapel again.

The inside was just as unwelcoming and foreboding a sightas before.She stood in the doorway and looked at the statues, half-expecting them to speak to her. _Heavenly Father, protect me!_ she prayed fervently inher thoughts.Up until this point, her greatest fear had been that she would not get inside and find her way again to the lake. Now, she was afraid of what would happen once she had succeeded. The thought of going into the depths of the opera house alone, with Erik lurking somewhere below, was distressing at the very least. But she fought her emotions, loath to let him to see her so afraid, and crossed the room to pull up the other iron barrier. The stairs looked more vertical than she remembered. She stepped down, holding out her hands against the walls.

She was soon wishing for a lantern or candle. The darkness was deadly to her footsteps, although there were a few lit candles on the walls. She barely remembered how they had gone last time, but just took every downward staircase she saw, knowing _down_ was at least the correct direction. Eventually she came to a larger room with a wooden floor and began to cross it. When her foot hit something hard,she heard the clink of metal, and crouched down to discover she was standing on the trapdoor. Her heart jumped into her throat and seemed to stick there.She lifted the handle and dropped through the opening. By this time, what was left in her stomach of the little supper she had eaten was very nearly making a reappearance.

There it was, the lake, with the same strange lights shining in it, and the seemingly perpetual mist. She walked slowly toward where Erik tied up his boat, but did not see it. Of course he could not have been waiting for her. She found the lever and, after several moments of hesitation, gave it a pull. Afraid she would pass out right there and fall into the water, she leaned against the pillar to support herself. She felt quite sick and dizzy. It only got worse when she heard groaning metal beyond the lake.

He was coming.

Marguerite closed her eyes and tried to brace herself, but that did not make her feel much better. Her shivering was worse. When she looked again, she saw his silhouette, rowing. The dark figure in the boat, moving soundlessly over the water and parting the mist, was an awesome sight.She moved her left hand to make sure she could still feel the paper inside the glove, and stepped away from the column so he would be sure to see her. Soon he was close enough for her to glimpsehis mask's whiteness.As much as she wanted to flee, her feet stayed anchored to the floor. He would catch her anyway, without a doubt.

He was completely silent as he docked the boat and stepped out, without so much as the most basic of greetings. When he approached her, she stepped back from him automatically.

"I thought you had forgotten me," he finally said with a sneer.

Marguerite could only shake her head, deathly frightened and unable to tear her eyes away. Why now? She had been in his house and lost her fear over the course of her time there, confident she would leave unscathed. Why was she so certain _now _that he would take her life?

"You look quite frightened, my dear. Did something scare you?"

He was going to be very disappointed in her. _Stop it, stop mocking me! _She wanted to shout and rail against him, but the words would not come. And she had to speak. He was getting impatient.

"You _have _brought me news, have you not? I said not to come back if you didn't—"

"I have!" she choked out. "I have…something you can read, too."

The glint in his eyes was overeager and malevolent. "Out with it, then."

She hastily removed her glove and took the slip of paper out. It was damp and warm from her sweaty palms. He unfolded it to read by the dim lights around them. He stared at it for a long time;Marguerite could not read his expression. At last he crumpled it in his hand and turned to her. The left side of his face was in shadow, so all she could see was the dead white mask. Darkness fell over the eyehole, giving it the appearance of a skeleton's empty socket.

"This is all? A little _newspaper gossip article?_"

As much as she shouldkeep an eye on him, Marguerite closed both of her own. She should have waited to find out more. It had been a grave error, to come tonight.

"It has only been a few days, monsieur. I can find out more if you give me time."

"Your family is wealthy. Your father owns the opera house in which _he _used to be a patron. _How do you not know them?_"

"We've only just moved to Paris—"

"You know what I can do if you fail to comply—"

"_Yes!_" Marguerite shouted. The water called out in response, and for a second she wondered if the outside world could hear. Erik looked out at the lake, and she knew he was thinking the same thing. He turned back to glare at her, about to say something else, but she interrupted with a barrage of the pent-up anguish from the last few days.

"I know what you can do, I know what _I_ must do, and I know what will happen if I don't comply with your filthy bargain! But I _do not know the Vicomtess!_" She pointed at the hand that held the paper. "_This _is the only way I can learn of her, same as you! In fact, I daresay you know more than I do."

Erik was silent for a minute, just watching Marguerite gasping for breath after her outburst. So quickly she had turned from a cowering child to an angry panther, andall he could do was watch the transformation. He wondered if she was finished and started to speak; she was not.

"I have a friend who knows them, though. He told me a little, when I asked, but he did not wish to speak of it. He said the Vicomte's family did not want him to marry a common chorus girl."

"_Common?_" He interrupted, enraged. "She was anything but common!"

"Yes," Marguerite said, now striving for patience, "but according to Marcel, she adjusted well to her new life, butit still was not her place."

_Of coursenot_. _Her place is with me_. "Who is Marcel, and what does he know?"

"He is my…friend. His family knows the de Chagnys."

"What else did he tell you?"

Marguerite swallowed. She _did _have something to tell himl; she would not.Why, she might never understand, butall she knew was that she could not tell him."Nothing. As I said, he did not wish to speak of it."

"You've just gone even paler. You're hiding something."

"No," she said, shaking her head and hoping her voice sounded composed.

"You're lying. There is something else." He stepped toward her.

"_No!_" She turned to run away, but slipped in the dark and collided with a stone post. With the addition of a blow to the head, the combination of fatigue, cold, and terror was too much, and she passed out. The last thing she remembered was echoing pain in her head and her knees as she crashed to the floor, and Erik's whisper, "Damn you."


	9. Don Juan's Effect

Disclaimer: The lyrics are not mine! I give all credit to A.L.Webber, and to Gaston Leroux for the Phantom in general...

* * *

The next thing she felt was something cold on her face. Water ran into her nose and open mouth, and she started to choke. Marguerite opened her eyes, but saw nothing. After one second of panic, she snatched the soaking wet cloth off of her face, sitting up. She was laying ona stone floor...on the opposite side of the lake. She touched the right side of her head and winced when she felt the spot that had met the stone column. She dearly hoped there would be no bruising there for someone to ask about. Glancing around, she saw Erik standing at the organ, his back to her. Apparently he had just flung the cloth over her face and walked away. 

She tried to remember exactly what happened. Why had he brought her back here? She refused to tell him something—about Christine's son. Marguerite did not fully understand why she could not tell him, but she felt it so strongly that she knew she had to obey her emotions. She looked at Erik again. Had he brought her back to torture her into telling him? Hadshe been wrong before, to think he would not truly harm her?He turned around. She averted her gaze quickly, but he had already seen her watching him.

"Why am I here?" she asked, gazing at the hypnotic rippling of the water.

"I couldn't let you suffer where you fell."

"Oh, that's so very kind of you," she said dryly.

"I'm not being kind, I'm protecting my investment. You're going to prove most useful to me, I think, given a bit more time." Marguerite buried her face in her hands and heard a low chuckle. "You're not trapped here. You may go as soon as you can walk steadily. I'd prefer it, actually."

"Then where is my cloak?" she asked, standing up like a toddler. With one step she was back on her knees, the room spinning. She heard Erik mutter another curse and come toward her.

"You see what I mean?" He grabbed her arms and dragged her up, almost shoving her onto the couch. "Don't move. I don't want you fainting into the lake and drowning." He returned to the organ. Marguerite lay down on her side, closing her eyes again and hoping he hadn't noticed how his touch made her even weaker. "You're going to help me a great deal," he said, unable to keep the relish from his voice. "I'm going to regain what should have been mine years ago!" He sat on the bench and began to play, perhaps for the first time in five years.

Marguerite's eyes flew open at the first few notes. After a jarring introduction, they formed an exquisite melody, totally unfamiliar. It was the most captivating piece she had ever heard, not quite natural, yet it could not possibly have been played by human hands, composed by a mere human's mind. She pushed herself up and turned in her seat to watch. Had he never discontinued his music after Christine left him? He played as though he hadn't, and kept going, forgetting Marguerite's presence, wrapped up in past memories and present schemes.

Drawn to the tune, Marguerite stood on her shaky legs and slowly walked toward him, unfaltering. She stepped up to the organ to stand a few paces behind him and listen. She forgot where she was and who _he _was. All she could think was how much she needed to hear that music. She moved even closer to his left, watching his hands moving hypnotically over the keys—long, elegant fingers that seemed unattached to the body they belonged to. A glance at the uncovered half of his face told her where the loveliness of his music must come from.

The moment was broken when he finally noticed her there, staring and oblivious, and he stopped playing. He stood and backed away. The look on her face was all too familiar.

"Get back," he said.

"Please," Marguerite said, "keep playing." She felt lightheaded again and grasped the side of the organ to steady herself. Her knees weakened, and she sank to the floor, leaning against the instrument that had so thoroughly stirred up her emotions.

He said nothing as he turned his back and ran his hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. He shouldn't have played in front of this girl! He should have saved his enthusiasm until she was gone. To play music composed especially for Christine, in front of anyone _but _Christine, was blasphemy. He glanced back at where she had dropped. She was so still, he wondered if she was dead, and he went to see.

She was shivering and pale as ever. When he stopped in front of her, she looked up at him with her enormous gray eyes. She was scared senseless, but of something completely unfamiliar, which was running rampant in her own mind. "Will you keep playing?" She looked so sick that he almost consented, but he shook his head. Shivering, she lowered her chin. "How long was I asleep before?"

"Just long enough to come across the lake."

Her wits rushed back to her, and she gasped. She nearly toppled over trying to stand again. He caught her and held her against the wall. "I have to go home!" She struggled, but he was too strong. "I have to get home before morning! I'll never be able to explain if I'm not there."

"It _is _morning," he said, indicating the clock on top of the organ. "Half past midnight."

"If they miss me, I don't know what will happen." She started to babble. "My mother doesn't want me to come to the opera house anymore, and I have to come in the middle of the night, and there are gendarmes outside because of what you've done, and—"

"Shut up!" he hissed. "You'll make yourself worse." He finally pulled her from against the wall and helped her back down to the sofa again. "Now _be still_." She was baleful this time when she met his gaze. "If _Christine _were here, _she _would have done whatever I asked!"

"I wish she _were _here! Then I wouldn't have to sneak around and gather information like a packrat for you. I pity Christine almost as much as I pity you, and I'm _glad _I'm not her!"

_Unless she was going to hear music like that for the rest of her life_. The thought came suddenly, unwanted, and she pushed it away, ignoring how it troubled her. She was going mad.

"If you don't be quiet, you'll only make things harder for yourself," he said.

"At least I know you won't kill me. Not now that I'm so _important _to you!" she spat.

"Not yet, anyway," he said, slowly, after the briefest hesitation.

_How can he be a killer…and write music like that?_ Marguerite thought._ How could I have lost my senses so completely? _"What is the name of that music? You wrote it, didn't you?"

"It's from my opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_."

"I thought it was lovely." What an understatement! "Are there words to it?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to hear them. It makes being down here with you quite bearable." She yearned to take back the words as soon as they were spoken.

His frown deepened. "I sing only for Christine."

_Like an obedient canary_. Marguerite stared off at the water again, willing her head to clear so she could leave. "What if you never see her again?"

"Oh, but I will." He sounded quite resolved, but she did not ask how he would manage it.

She heard his echoing footsteps and turned around in time to see him disappearing through the doorway. After waiting a minute, she realized he was taking his time doing whatever it was, and she went back up to the organ. She picked up a page of the music he had been playing and read the lyrics written there. Her eyes grew wider and wider as they drank in the words.

_You have come here  
In pursuit of your deepest urge,  
In pursuit of that wish which, 'til now, has been silent—silent_.  
_I have brought you  
That our passions may fuse and merge_.  
_In your mind, you've already succumbed to me,  
Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me_.  
_Now you are here with me,  
__No second thoughts,  
__You've decided—decided…_

Marguerite dropped the page, something new and not unpleasant stirring deep inside her. This place was changing her. She had to get away. Looking around frantically, she found her cloak and put it on, then rushed over to the boat, still very nauseous. She picked up the pole, stumbled aboard, and started untyingthe gondolafrom its post. Just as she was pushing off into the open water, he returned.

"_No!_"

He ran to the edge and jumped into the boat. His landing was nimble, but the sudden weight almost tipped them over. He wrestled the pole out of her grasp. "You're not taking this boat without me in it. _That's _never going to happen again!" He stood up and steered it through the lake. Marguerite could hear those musical whispers, for the two of them were silent until the boat bumped against stone once more, close to the stairs she had to ascend. She stepped onto the ground and faced him. His eyes pierced right through her, and she wondered—and feared—how far inside her he could see.

"Remember, one week, no more." He turned the boat around and went back to his home. Marguerite watched him until he disappeared into the darkness. The tears came then.

Somehow she found her way back outside without getting lost. A clock tower chimed the quarter-hour. Keeping her eyes open for policemen, she hurried across the street, silently cursing the loud soles of her shoes. Because she had to pause once in a while to catch her breath and allow the queasiness to pass away, the walk home was much longer. When she finally arrived, she closed her eyes and sighed in relief to see that no lights shone from any window. Her absence was still unknown.

Marguerite staggered through the little gate into the yard. The back door was just as she had left it. Two little reflections shone from the floor when she entered the kitchen, and she felt Beatrice rubbing against her cold legs. Never before was she so glad to see the cat, who followed her upstairs into her room. Marguerite struggled to undress herself and put on her nightgown. She wanted to just tumble into bed without stopping to change, but that would raise some uncomfortable questions in the morning, and her face became warm at the mere thought.

Thankfully, for the first time in a week, Marguerite did not remember her dreams that night.


	10. First Opportunity

**A/N: I have returned! See? Less than a week, as I promised. But I'm sorry to say, it's a pretty dull chapter, although very necessary. Erik is in it, never fear, but basically the whole thing is filled with details setting up for the next chapter and later chapters, and...oh, you'll figure it out.  
Thank you SO MUCH to those of you who reviewed! I'm sorry I don't have time now to respond to individual reviews, but each one is equally important! I can't tell you how much it means to me, and I'm very excited that you're all enjoying this. I think I have an ending figured out, but I'm still open to suggestions.  
**Disclaimer: See Chapter One!

Even as she tried to think of a way out, Marguerite returned to the opera house again and again. Sometimes she went the entire week before going back. Other times, she returned only two nights later—she was terrified of forgetting. Her information was almost always in the form of a gossip article. This irritated Erik, she knew, but at least he eventually did believe that she never met the Vicomtess de Chagny. She had managed to garner a few tidbits from the few friends she was making, the ones who had lived in Paris' aristocracy much, much longer.

He never let on how he hoarded those papers, poring over them after she left, until she could bring him the next piece of news.

In the meantime, Marguerite drained her friends of information—in turns so they would not be too suspicious. They just laughed and indulged her, attributing her curiosity to the sheltered estate life they thought she had led before moving to Paris. No one could tell her—or they never _wanted _to tell her—exactly where the Vicomte's estate was, and Marguerite was grateful for that. Erik would probably not hesitate to spy on them there. What if he went and tried to kill Raoul de Chagny?

In the weeks after the vandalism in her father's office, the number of guards surrounding the opera house decreased. Eventually there was none but the regular night patrol, and Marguerite quickly memorized his route, making it easier to enter the building. Inside, she learned the path to the underground lake almost as well as its resident. She did not return to his dwelling, but only gave him news on the shore. More than a small part of her wanted to go back. His music still lingered inside her, the haunting tune echoing in her head at the strangest, sometimes inappropriate,times. She wanted so desperately to hear him play, but…

"Where are you now, Marguerite?"

Her friend Charlotte looked at her inquisitively. Marguerite smiled and put down her teacup.

"I'm so sorry, I was daydreaming."

"No matter," Charlotte said with a wave of her delicate hand. "I don't know how important it is, but I asked if you were aware how much Marcel D'Aubigne fancies you."

Marguerite was taken completely by surprise. She _was _aware, of course, but had never dreamed anyone else would mention it. "I suppose," she said, stammering, "but I can't imagine why."

Charlotte even laughed elegantly. "If I were you, I would feel no shame about his admiration." When she received no reply, she raised one eyebrow. "But are _you _not fond of him as well?"

Marguerite bit her bottom lip. "Not very. He seems very well-educated and full of excellent qualities, butI just...I am not so very interested."

"But he is exceptionally handsome, Marguerite. And his family is wealthy, with a prominent name, and his manner is beyond compare." She sounded scolding.

"Yes, I know." How could she convey to Charlotte how unappealing she found the young man? Perhaps it was just her common upbringing, but she thought he was dull, pompous, and condescending. Still, Charlotte had a very good point. And she needed his connections to the de Chagnys.

"Then you will understand why I see no reason you should not return his affections."

Marguerite felt a blush come over her face. She did not feel comfortable with this conversation, but she told Charlotte she understood. Behind closed doors, blue-blooded young ladies seemed different from what Marguerite had expected.

Throughout the rest of Christmastime and up until the eve of the New Year, Marguerite tried to live as Charlotte suggested. In the whirl of dinner-parties, dances, and skating socials, she suffered Marcel's company. Dances and visits from other gentlemen grewmore sparse. It seemed Marcel's overbearing behavior was serving as a warning for other potential suitors. When Marguerite realized this, she bristled, wishing she was still middle class—there were fewer burdening rules to keep her from asking Marcel exactly what he wanted from her.

Preparation for New Year's Eve was a disappointment to Gautier. He had wanted so much to host a masquerade ball at the opera house, like the "old days," but there was a party already planned at the mansion of another important Parisian family. Marguerite, however, was overjoyed it would not be at the opera house. All those people in masks, and any one of them could have been Erik! Surely he would at least haunt the perimeter of the crowd, keeping both eyes out for his beloved.

The night before the party, she went back to the _Opera Populaire_. The walk was almost unendurably cold. Nevertheless,time passed quickly, for her mind was occupied with irritating thoughts of Marcel and what to do about him. Oh, he had been so charming at first, and she had been excited to gain such a "worthy" gentleman's attentions. In her other life, he would have never looked twice at her, maybe not even once, and she had foolishly thought herself lucky. Now she wanted him to leave her alone, but he seemed to be considering asking her to marry him. Of course, he was too _polite _to actually _ask _her yet. He only assumed. It would have been her first proposal...and she would feel obligated to refuse him. What a shame.

If some fairy godmother appeared before Marguerite and asked her which burden she would like removed—Marcel's possessiveness, or Erik's blackmail?—she would have needed a long time to weigh her choices. It would not be so bad to join her life with Marcel's, she admitted to herself, if he did not behave as if she already belonged to him—and if he was quite a different person. She sighed as she crawled into the opera house. If only he would just come out and ask her to marry him. Then she could kindly decline and get it over with.

Marguerite no longer bothered to disguise her emotions from Erik anymore, though she told him nothing more of her ownlife. He never asked, and he did not care. But that particular evening, when she thought he took too long to come for his payment, she became impatient. His boat rounded the corner to see her pacing back and forth on the shore like a caged animal. He smiled, thinking she looked the way he felt, day after day.

"Are you in a great hurry?" he called out mockingly. She stopped and turned toward him.

"You've kept me waiting long enough."

"Oh, forgive me, your highness. I was tidying up."

"What for? You have no company. I am the only one who comes down here, and I'm not allowed in the _sanctuary_." He just looked at her with those unfathomable eyes as he stepped out of the boat. "What are you doing with the information I give you?" she asked. "It's been nearly two months. Other than keeping me quiet, what is it for?"

Erik returned with some questions of his own. "Why do you ask now? Does it really matter?" She said nothing, and he added, "You are too curious."

Marguerite looked at his mask, long enough that he understood when she said, "I am not so _very _curious." His hand flew up to his mask as though to protect it. But she made no move that would have justified his actions. "It has taken me so much effort to comply with your demands. But for your end of the bargain, you must do _nothing_."

"_C'est la vie_," he said. "So what are you saying?"

"It's not fair."

His angry, musical laugh burst forth, startling her and causing her pulse to speed up. "Don't speak to me of _fair!_ Nothing is ever fair, don't you think _I_ know that?"

"Yes, and I know it as well," she said calmly. "You needn't tell me what injustices and cruelties you've had to face. I can only imagine. But I am just trying to right a few wrongs in my _own_ life." He was silent. "Tell me what you're doing with the gossip I bring you." He took an eternity to answer her, but she waited.

"I want her back."

"I know that."

"I'm going to get her back!"

"How can you be so sure?"

He turned away. He wasn't. But he had lived only for Christine since he heard that first note from her perfect lips, and he was not going to stop now. "She belongs with me."

"She is Raoul's wife, Erik. She has him." It was the first time she had referred to the Vicomte by his given name.

"Is this all you came to tell me?"

"No," she said, seeing that she was not going to get anywhere in this conversation tonight. "I heard that the Vicomte and Vicomtess are going away to London after the New Year. I will let you know when they return." She watched him contemplating this for a few moments. "I hope you are not thinking of following them."

"Of course not. Now I have more time to prepare for her—" he smiled devilishly "—_homecoming_."

_Madness, _Marguerite thought sadly, _hopeless madness, and I am partially responsible_. _I got involved, with my own idiocy_. "But before that…" she said, hesitant to disclose it.

"Yes?"

"I will have a chance to meet her tomorrow night. There is a grand ball for the New Year, and I have heard she and the Vicomte will attend, as will myself and my family."

He sighed. "At last." _At last, you will truly be useful to me_.

"Is there something you want me to tell her?"

He thought for a moment. "Tell her…Erik still waits for her."

Marguerite looked away, hardly able to stand it. He was destroying himself this way. Christine might not come; his plan could fail completely. Then what would he do? He would never play music again, Marguerite was sure of that. She folded her arms across herself as if trying to shrink. She glanced back at Erik and was once again teeming with sympathy. She thought of her own jolly Christmas, full of friends and parties, while he was down here alone, grieving as always in his self-made prison.

Why had she not thought of that before, when she had come the night after Christmas? Was he even aware that the holiday had come and gone, and a new year was around the corner?

_He's done it to himself, you know_. She knew, and it did not help her. She still felt sorry for him.

"Don't look at me like that," he demanded, startling her.

Her eyes must have betrayed her. "I will tell her," she said. Then she added, her voice choked with restrained tears, "I'm so sorry." She hurried away before he could respond.


	11. Brave Young Suitors, Meeting Christine

**A/N: All right, here comes what seems to have become a much-anticipated chapter. This is the last update for a while, as I have 3 actually serious papers (:sigh:) to work on for school this week, so I have to put the writing I enjoy on hold for a while. Soon I may have to Punjab some of my professors. Anyway, lots of stuff happens here…watch out!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One! Gosh!

* * *

At the party, Marguerite kept herself on her toes, watching for Marcel as she chatted with her friends in the doorway to the ballroom. Apparently he was not there yet, for she danced with three other young men, and not one of them glanced over his shoulder as though he was about to be caught stealing. Marguerite wished she could relax and thoroughly enjoy herself—without forgetting her manners, of course—but she kept looking for both the Vicomtess de Chagny, whom she wanted to meet, and for Marcel, whom she wanted to avoid at all cost. 

"Did you have an enjoyable Christmas, Mademoiselle Gautier?" asked her third partner, Henri, when the dance was over.

"Very much, thank you," she said, smiling, opening and closing her fan flirtatiously.

"May I get you some refreshment? The punch is delicious."

"That would be nice."

As he led her away from the dance floor, she glanced behind her several times. Henri handed her a cup and began asking her about an upcoming opera performance, but she could not pay attention. Just as she brought the drink to her lips, she saw a too-familiar head moving towards them through the crowd. She tried to look at Henri as he spoke to her, but he noticed her eyes growing larger and turned to see what was wrong. As soon as he saw Marcel, he took a nervous step away from her.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Gautier," Marcel said. "I am most pleased to see you here." Marguerite took a gulp of punch to delay her own greeting.

"Good evening," she finally said. Marcel glanced at Henri, who politely excused himself.

_He's not that daunting,_ Marguerite thought, wishing Henri would stay. _He is not even very tall_. She put down her beverage, indignant. "Why did you do that? He was being very kind to me."

"Well, now that I am here you needn't bother with his company at all." He smiled that comically contemptuous smile she had grown to hate so much. She was so startled that she laughed out loud.

"Aren't you conceited!" Without waiting to see the look on his face, she hurried away, trying to disappear into the crowd. The hostess had turned a few bedrooms into powder rooms for the lady guests, and Marguerite retreated to one of them. She spotted Estelle across the room.

"How are you enjoying yourself, Marguerite?"

"I was having a splendid time until Marcel arrived," she answered in a low tone. "He practically frightened Henri away."

"I'm sorry," Estelle said, her smile contradicting her words. "You ought to know by now, Marcel never hesitates to pursue something he wants."

"Yes, and _you_ ought to know by now that I have no fondness for the man!"

Estelle's expression was infuriating. "I imagine you'll have to wait it out, then, until he fancies another lady. You must be quite choosy if you don't like _him_. Were the wealthy young men in the country that much better?"

Marguerite did not answer her. She knew nothing of the wealthy young men of the country, and had begun to feel guilt that most of her friendships in Paris were built upon lies. She imagined Estelle would be her friend even if she knew of the Gautiers' humble beginnings, but she did not want to risk it.

"Perhaps…" was all she said.

"Let's go back down and join the others," Estelle said, hooking her arm through Marguerite's.

As they descended the stairs, the front door opened and more guests were welcomed in. Marguerite could not believe her eyes. She recognized them from that first performance—the Vicomte and Vicomtess! She froze in her tracks, causing Estelle to stumble just a little, despite her very demure movements.

"Estelle!" she hissed. "Do you know the Vicomtess de Chagny?"

"Well, I've met her only a few—"

"Will you introduce me? Please?" She did not bother trying to hide the frantic speed of her words.

Estelle grinned as they started back down the rest of the stairs. "I see you have not lost your curiosity." She frowned. "But Marguerite, you _mustn't _say anything to her about her experience at the _Opera Populaire_! She was so distressed after the Vicomte rescued her, and then that beastly man who kidnapped her was found dead. You _must _know how traumatic that must have been for her!"

"I shall say nothing of it," Marguerite lied, feeling resentful that her friend had taken to dictating what she should or should not speak of. "Please?"

"All right. Wait until they've settled in. Find Marcel to dance with you and pass the time." She left Marguerite before she could say anything more. Marguerite stepped into the ballroom and, in less than a minute, Marcel was beside her. She stifled a sigh of frustration.

"Allow me this dance," he said haughtily, "and I will forgive your little outburst."

Oh, if he were only to witness those outbursts of hers Erik had seen! She agreed without a trace of a smile. Marcel took it for guilt and led her out to the floor.

"I must askyou never toinsult me like that again, Marguerite," he said as they waltzed among the others. "I don't take to it very well."

Was this a threat? Good lord, were there _any _gentlemen left in the world? "I was angry," Marguerite said. "I only wished you would not frighten away a man just because he was being pleasant to me."

His hold on her tightened. "Let's not talk about it any more. Will you be attending the opera two nights from now?"

She had forgotten all about it. "Yes, I imagine so."

"You are welcome to join my family and myself in the box we have reserved."

"Thank you, I shall consider it," she said, though she had no intentions to do so. After what seemed to be nothing short of forever, the dance was over. She thanked Marcel and walked away again. She found Estelle without much trouble, and together they approached the Vicomtess. She had just finished speaking to an older woman who then left her to dance. Her husband was nowhere nearby.

"Madame le Vicomtess de Chagny," Estelle said, "may I present Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier? Her father is the owner of the _Opera Populaire_."

Christine de Chagnysmiled a wide, friendly smile. Her brown curls were arranged intricately on her head with sparkling false flowers, and she wore a deep green gown. When Marguerite met her chocolate eyes, she wondered what Erik would do if he could have seen her at that moment. If this lady's voice was half as beautiful as her outward appearance, it was no wonder he wanted her all to himself. However, she could not imagine this delicate loveliness languishing away in that prison under the opera house. Christine's cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright, and Marguerite immediately knew her life with the Vicomte was anything but miserable, no matter how much his family might disapprove of her.

"How do you do," the Vicomtess said. "We attended the opening performance there weeks ago. It was wonderful, as it used to be." Her smiled changed and she cocked her head inquisitively. Her voice was misty as she said, "Did she say your name is Marguerite?I sang the role of Marguerite once, in _Faust_…" She laughed and shook her head. "Forgive me. I'm pleased to meet you."

Marguerite wanted to say much more, but knew she had just been politely dismissed. She inclined her head just a bit before dissolving back into the crowd.

"I see you have finally met the Vicomtess de Chagny," Marcel said later as they danced again. "You ought to have asked _me _to introduce you. She would have recognized me much more easily than Estelle."

_Will your stupid arrogance never cease?_ Marguerite screamed in her head. She wanted to tear herself away from him and flee the party, but was afraid of the gossip that might incur if anyone saw her. She just kept her thoughts on the music, and how she could manage to get away long enough to speak to Christine.

The opportunity came sooner than expected. She went upstairs into one of the bedrooms again to find the Vicomtess alone. Marguerite took a deep breath and stepped up to her. It was her first chance, and probably her last for a long time.

"Madame le Vicomtess?"

Christine jumped a little, then breathed a half-laugh at herself. "Yes?"

There was no way to be tactful about this, Marguerite decided. "I must speak to you of Erik."

The smile slowly faded from Christine's mouth. "Erik is dead."

Marguerite shook her head, her eyes never leaving Christine's, no matter how rude it was. "No, Madame. He lives, still on the lake. He wishes me to tell you he still waits for you."

Christine turned deathly pale, and the muscles in her graceful neck were tense. She sucked in her breath and turned her backon Marguerite. Her voice changed to a dark whisper. "Why are you doing this? How do you know him?"

Marguerite looked down in shame. "I have been serving him these past two months. If I don't bring him whatever information I find out about you, he will ruin my father's opera house. He thinks I know so much about you because my father owns the _Opera Populaire_."

Christine turned back around, and Marguerite looked her in the face again. "How do you know anything about me?"

"I've only been telling him what others tell me…Marcel D'Aubigne, and the like. And what I read in the papers, in the gossip columns, you know. He can't be discovered, so he hardly leaves his…house. At least, I don't _think _he leaves often. But please, Madame, don't tell a soul that he's alive! They would come after him again, and he would think _I _sent them."

Christine pressed her palm to her forehead, as though this conversation was giving her a fracturing headache. "What could possibly have brought you into company with the Phantom of the opera?"

"I went with my father to the _Opera Populaire _his first morning as new owner. I went wandering around, and…I literally ran into Erik." She paused. "It's a bit more complicated than that."

"With Erik, it always is." Christine looked back at the mirror and pinched her cheeks to bring back the color.

"Madame," Marguerite prompted, frustrated that Christine was leading the conversation in a way she did not want it to go, "he still loves you, and suffers from it every day. And _I _suffer, because I must aid him. I cannot let him destroy the opera house!"

Christine looked as though she were fighting tears. "I made my choice years ago, and he let me go. Please, Mademoiselle Gautier, I cannot bear to think of him. I cannot think about the past, it's finished." She turned and started toward the door.

"Madame, what am I to tell him?" She was panicking by now.

Christine turned around and said, "Tell him...I shall never forget him, and...I thank him for what he did for me, but I'm not the child I once was. I have the life I'm _meant _to live." She smiled sadly. "Erik must take heart. Hehas you now." She left the room, leaving Marguerite completely bewildered.


	12. Shattering News

**A/N: I finally could not resist slacking off a little…it was almost as mesmerizing as Erik's voice. I despise school right now, it's so crazy! I can't wait until these assignments are over and I can stop being such a good student. Uh…sorry about that! Here, have a new chapter! It's much longer than I thought it was going to be. There's lots of dialogue, but it was really hard to write and revise, so I'm afraid it sounds strained. Have to admit, I'm pretty envious of Marguerite in this one! I think I need counseling.  
**

Disclaimer: Again, the lyrics do not belong to me. I wish I could write music like that. Thank you, A.L.Webber!

* * *

Christine's words played over and over again in Marguerite's mind as she shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other. _Calm down, _she thought, but she could not listen to herself. Another part of her was saying she was crazy, and she knew it. Why did she have to go and do something so stupid as bring Erik a gift?He was not going to be happy at all to hear what Christine had to say. He might even blame Marguerite for it…somehow. Oh, he would find a way. Nonetheless, she was going to extend a belated Christmas present, even though he would probably refuse it. Once she told him about her conversation with Christine the night before, nothing was going to appease him.

She saw the gondola come through the mist, unusually thick that night. When he stepped onto solid ground and saw the basket she carried, he hesitated.

"What is _that?_"

"I've brought you some food," she said, still taken aback by his abruptness.

"What? Why?" He was dumbfounded, unable to believe she would even think of doing such a thing.

"I realized you must not have had much of a Christmas," she mechanically spoke the words she had rehearsed to herself, "so I brought you this."

"I don't need charity!"

The corners of her mouth drooped. "I was afraid you'd see it that way."

Unwilling to feel obliged to _her _for a change and take the proffered gift, he just stared threateningly at it for a minute, then at her. She was not going to back down! At last he swallowed his pride. "Thank you," he said, gritting his teeth and not sounding grateful at all.

Marguerite took a deep breath, licked her lips,and said, "Keep what's in it, but I need the basket. It's not mine, and I have to return it."

"I'll empty it and bring it back."

"While I just stand here? That's very rude, considering I've just done you a kindness."

"I'm not in the habit of _entertaining _guests. Especially when they're…quite unwelcome." She just looked at him disapprovingly. After a moment, "Fine, get in."

Marguerite felt more than a little proud, but also uneasy at her own boldness. And, of course, still afraid of his reaction when she would tell him of her conversation with Christine. But if she was nice enough, maybe—just maybe—he would relax his demands a little.

Once at Erik's home, she snatched up the basket and hopped out of the boat before him, wanting to make sure he would not just toss it into the water. The only place to put it was on the chair at his desk, the one uncluttered surface besides the floor. She waited until he tied up the boat and faced her again.

"Tell me what happened," he said. "Did you meet her?"

"Don't you want to see what's in it?" She pointed at the present and tried to smile.

"Do I?" he asked. "I don't know if I should trust you."

"That's a fine thing to say. _You're _the one who's blackmailing _me_."

"All the more reason for me not to trust you." Still, he took a few steps closer to the chair. "You didn't meet her, did you?"

"I did," Marguerite assured him. "I just thought you should—"

"Stop stalling."

"Here!" She flipped back the cloth that covered the basket's contents and held it up, revealing bread, cheese, a small meat-pie, and several shiny red apples. "None of it is poisoned. Are you quite happy now?"

He looked as if he did not even know what they were. "Why did you bring this?"

She set the basket back down, wondering how many times was he going to ask her. Maybe he just could not believe she would be thoughtful to him after all he put her through. "I thought…I just wanted to do something considerate. It _is _Christmastime, after all—or it was. It's a new year now."

"What is it you want?"

Marguerite closed her eyes tightly. This man! "Nothing! I was…it's a gift!"

"Damn your gift and your pity! Keep it yourself."

With a cry, Marguerite grabbed one of the apples and threw it at him, hitting him in the arm. He grunted when it made contact and watched the apple roll into the water with a weak _plunk_. Then he looked up at her, surprised to see that she looked hurt as well as cross.

"Serves you right," she said. "I'm about to take this back with me, since you're so ungrateful."

"Not before you tell me what happened last night."

She bit her bottom lip. "I met her, and I told her what you asked me to." She felt queasy when she saw his eyes brighten with a hope she would have to shatter. "She…she told me to let you know she will never forget you, and she thanks you for…well, I don't know what…"

"Yes?"

"But she also said she has a new life, and she is not who she used to be." She exhaled slowly, hoping he caught her words, for it felt as though they had spilled incoherently out of her.

Erik took a deep breath of his own, trying to absorb everything she had just told him. It could not be true. How could Christine just move on, living as though five, almost six years ago had never happened? Didn't she miss his music, his presence,his voice? What had Raoul done to make her forget him? He saw Marguerite shrinking back against the desk, nervous. She _should _be nervous.

"You're lying. Christine can't just forget me—her teacher, her _angel!_"

"She said she wouldn't. But Erik, she seems _happy _with her life now."

"I can't believe you."

"Believe me if you want to, or don't. But it's the truth."

"No! What did you do? You didn't really go to her, did you? You told her something else. She still believes me dead, doesn't she?" Swearing, he turned around, rubbing the back of his neck, beginning to see red.

Marguerite saw the warning signs. "Erik, she's a married woman, a Vicomtess, with a husband and…" She stopped herself.

"And?" He looked back at her, eyebrows knitting.

"And a _child!_" She spat these words out at him, _wanting _him to be hurt. How well he deserved it!

He blinked several times. "Child?"

"A son."

_So there's another little fop toddling around their house_, he thought, feeling sick at everything it implied. He nearly doubled over at the revolting visions that came to his mind—Christine and Raoul, together, sharing kisses and sharing skin. Over the years, he had soothed himself with fantasies of Christine never fully giving herself to the Vicomte, even married to him. Perhaps she would be so saddenedby the dark fate of her Angel of Music that she would secretly grant Erik that one little favor, and one day return to him, realizing what she had done and willing to be his forever.

But a son?

It couldn't be! His muse, and another man's child…

_A son_.

"Christine told you?" he finally said.

"No." Now Marguerite was the one to grit her teeth and say dryly, "Marcel was kind enough to inform me. I've known for some time."

He shook his head and took another deep breath, trying to regain composure. He wished to God that Marguerite wasn't there. He was quite tempted to hurt someone the way his own heart and soul were being ripped apart at that moment. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I was afraid you would be _so _furious," she said, "and that it would hurt you too much." She knew it had, but her tumultuous emotions began to possess her.

He frowned even more deeply, puzzled. What did it matter to her?

"But now I _don't _care. I'm tired of this!" Her voice rose as it had before, and even as she knew she shouldn't let herself get carried away, she could not avoid it. "I can't keep living this way, the Phantom's little spy, with an ulterior motive for everything I do! My mother wants to know why I look so tired. My friends think I'm nosy and snooping because I ask them so much about _your _precious Christine Daae. But I don't have any alternative, do I, and of course I have to _lie _to them, _and I'm tired of living in constant lies!_"

She glanced down at the basket and almost threw another apple. Instead, she picked up a candlestick from the desk and turned to heave it at a mirror. As it was already broken, there was not much more damage she could do. She started shouting again, this time at no one in particular, not quite realizing what she was saying.

"This past year of my life has all been a farce! I have to act like someone I'm not. All this lying, just to please them, hiding where I came from..." She picked up a pen and threw it at Erik like a spear, but he ducked. "I can't tell anyone who I really am, and I am _sick with it!_" Looking for more ammunition, she reached for one of the figurines on Erik's miniature stage, but he rushed at her and grabbed her arm.

"Enough!"

"Let me go!" She formed a fist with her free hand and struck his shoulder several times, again without much damage done. Erik caught her wrists and then, to his complete surprise, she burst into tears. When he let go of her she collapsed against his chest, her sobs filled with anguish, frustration, and self-loathing. Erik just stood there, her tears soaking his shirt, not knowing what to do. He would have thought she was trying to garner _his _pity if the sobs that wrenched her slender body and echoed through the cavernous room were not so sincere. He could feel the heat of her unhappy breath seeping through his clothing. Desperate for a solution, and with none other in mind, he put his hands on her shoulders to push her away, mentally pleading that she stop.

As soon as she felt him touch her, Marguerite started and drew back, staring up at him in shock and fear. "I realize I'm trapped," she whispered, "but I don't know how I can keep this up."

Erik looked at her, wondering if she had indeed changed since the first time he saw her. Her pallor was a strong contrast to her wet, red-framed gray eyes; her black hair hung down her back in a limp braid. He could not be so cruel to her, he realized. He _needed _this girl as his last link to Christine. He would still get her back. If Marguerite suffered because of him, or refused to serve him anymore, where would that leave him? She needed _him_ too, though he did not understand why. Was it time to find out? What was all that she was saying about living a lie, acting like someone she wasn't? Was she hiding something that he really ought to know?

"Sit down," he said. "Get control of yourself."

Trying to salvage what little dignity she had left, Marguerite went to the couch, wiping her eyes. She sat there for several minutes in total silence. When she looked up again, he had gone. She stood and glanced around, but did not see him or hear his footsteps, so she went up to the organ and glanced uneasily at the music. It was a different tune, without lyrics. She sat on the bench and studied the composition, then placed her hands on the keys.

The first few notes sounded terrible. She actually laughed at her clumsiness—even awful music made her feel better! She closed her mouth when she heard him coming. He appeared in the doorway, glaring at her, his jaw set, but she did not move from her seat.

"The organ is very different from the piano," she said, trying and failing to sound cheerful.

"That was disgusting," he said, without a trace of humor.

She lifted her eyebrows and stood. "Will you play it, then? I'm not very skilled, you can see."

Although he wondered if she had some hidden scheme, Erik sat at the instrument without a word and began to play. Whether or not Christine was there, music was his second nature and he needed it almost more than he needed her. He tried to forget Marguerite's presence as he performed a melody that was soft and alluring.

Marguerite tried to steel herself from the effect she knew it had on her, but she still felt chills up her back. She watched him for a bit, then closed her eyes. They burst open again when she heard his voice join the notes.

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation_.  
_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination_.  
_Silently the senses abandon their defenses…_

The words were flawless in portraying how the music moved her. Why had she asked him to play again? She was all but hypnotized now, losing her reason to the surrounding shadows. His voice was like an invisible hand, tracing each of her vertebrae up and down.

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor_.  
_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender_.  
_Turn your face away from the garish light of day,  
__Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light,  
__And listen to the music of the night…_

His voice was perfect, unlike any other human's she ever heard. Better than the leading tenors of the opera, and certainly superior to the dissonant voices of men she knew when they sang Christmas carols. Unhurried, she turned and went back to the sofa, curling up on her side. She tried to ignore the fact that it was Erik who was playing, that her situation was not any better off, and that he was not going to give up on Christine and set Marguerite free. She should not have felt so peaceful there—but she did. When the song came to a close, she felt incredibly empty.


	13. Not Quite the Gentleman

**A/N: Aaah! I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this, but a lack of reviews shatters my confidence and makes me insecure, hehe. So I'm updating today, instead! I'm still coming to terms with the ending of this story (again, not coming for a while), but I'm 99 sure it's going to be E/OC; I just don't know how it's going to come about, exactly.**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

"I wish I could hear more," Marguerite said. "That's beautiful." When he said nothing, she took a risk and asked, "Will you play a piece from your opera, _Don Juan_?"

His shoulders give an involuntarytwitch beneath their clothing. "No," he said, his voice unusually raspy.

"Not even as an extra favor for all I've done?" She saw him touch his mask slightly, almost protectively, but he did not turn around.

"I can't."

Marguerite stood up and went to stand behind him and whispered to the back of his head. "Is it merely because _I _enjoyed it? You don't want _me _to like your music, because I'm not Christine. Is that it?"

Erik just turned his head, and when his eyes met hers, Marguerite saw his hurting again. And the anger, always the anger.

"What are you going to do now, Erik?"

He rested his elbows on the organ and held his head in his gloved hands. Her questions, her unending questions! He almost preferred her weeping; at least she didn't talk. He didn't want to think of what she asked, for he had asked himself enough times, always pushing it into the back of his dark mind, never wanting to consider the possibility. He _didn't _know what he would do.

For a year after she left him, he hid in the dankest, most repulsive holes of Paris, waiting for people to forget. The body of a hapless tramp was found floating in the lake and taken for that of the Phantom. Erik thought that first year was agony—the pain of losing Christine fresh and raw. But when he returned to his house under the _Opera Populaire_ and waited for her to come back, the torment only increased. Madame Giry came sometimes, but eventually she, too, disappeared. He was about to give up all hope until _this _girl came along and renewed it. Now, even she was ready to give up, although they both knew she couldn't. How could he live without Christine?She was the only part of his past he wanted; everything else he could never bear to live through again.

"Will you set me free of my obligations?" Marguerite asked. "Erik, what's to become of you? There must be something else. You can't place your whole future in Christine's hands."

The words choked as he said them. "I have nowhere else but this place. I have no one else but her. The only hope I have of any kind of life is with Christine beside me."

"She _has _her life now," Marguerite said, close to tears again, this time for him. "She does not suffer with the Vicomte, and Erik…I don't think he's going to just let her go."

"She said she will not come to me?" He turned completely around in his seat to face her.

"Well…no. She said she has the life she was meant for, but she will never forget you."

"Tell me _everything she said_, all you can remember."

Oh, why did she have to make him bring her back there? Stupid fool! Now she had no escape from his rage. "I asked her what I was to tell you. She already made her choice, she said, and you let her go. She says she can't think about the past, can't bear to think of _you_." Marguerite swallowed, her stomach doing waltzes of its own. "She said you have me now."

Erik stood and walked decisively down to his desk. He emptied the contents of the basket and tossed it at her. She caught it rather awkwardly, startled. He stepped into the boat and started to untie it.

"Get in," he said. "It's time for you to go."

Marguerite held the basket close and did as she was told. As always, the boat ride was a silent one. She was embarrassed at what Christine had said, and annoyed at her as well. What was she assuming, and what was Erik supposed to think?

A breeze stirred his cape and it brushed against her cheek, startling her. She looked up at him to see if she could read anything in his face. He only stared straight ahead. The tightness in his neck and jaw were all that reflected what he might have been thinking. Suddenly, Marguerite was powerfully interested in what was beneath his mask's smooth whiteness. For the first time, she had to know, for reasons mysterious to her. _Next time_, she thought. _Next time I'll find out_.

* * *

The next evening was another opera performance. She kept her eyes down and clutched the fur wrap tightly to her shoulders as she stepped out of the carriage. A gentle snowfall drifted around them, but a small breath of the frigid January evening made her lungs burn. She stepped up to the front doors, walking between her parents. The other theatergoers immediately hailed them as they came inside the lobby. The warmth and light was a great relief, and Marguerite felt her blood moving again. She saw Charlotte and her fiancée, Jacques, and caught Henri's eye so he had no choice but to greet her. Isabelle introduced her to several of her friends; she smiled and nodded and spoke a few choice niceties before it was time to go to their box. 

True to his word, Erik had not done a thing to the opera house, or made his presence known since the opening performance. Marguerite wondered if tonight was going to be any different, for the circumstances had changed a little. To what, she had no idea, but something certainly felt different to her. Settling into Box 5, she glanced across the colossal hall to see which box Marcel's family was occupying, but did not spot them. Marguerite hoped he would not be angry that she did not say anything more about sitting with them for the performance.

She had avoided the young man since the New Year's Eve party, and had unwisely repeated to Estelle her dislike of him. She knew she had to be more careful, for if Marcel D'Aubigne knew about her true origins, his own family was wealthy and powerful enough to do as much damage as Erik…possibly more. Yet she believed he wouldn't, for he was smitten with her, only heaven knew why, and he was far too well-bred and proud to bring it out in the open.

The opera that night was a colorful, comedic spectacle that kept the audience laughing and gasping at the ridiculous antics of the lead characters. Marguerite was thoroughly enjoying herself. Her misgivings were false—nothing occurred in Box 5 that night. At intermission, she wanted to find Estelle to laugh about what was happening on the stage.

Coming out at the top of the stairs, Marguerite saw her friend further down and walked toward her. She detoured most of the crowd to pass a dark hallway the audience never used. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in her shoulder and something pulled her back, dragging her into the dark. She twisted around, expecting to see Erik. She could not imagine how he dared to come so close to a crowd. But the back of the head she saw was rusty brown and curly.

"Marcel!" she gasped, hurrying to keep up with his quick strides so she would not be dragged. "What—"

He did not stop until much further down the hallway and pulled her into an alcove. Up close, his hazel eyes burned with a fire that rivaled Erik's. But there was something else there, completely different and more terrifying.

"What do you think you're doing to me?" he said, grasping her shoulders so hard, she flinched in pain. She smelled something _very _alcoholic on his breath. "I hear whispers, little suggestions. Lies, I think, _lies! _I cannot imagine you would _dare _insult me so!"

"Marcel, I…I've been meaning to tell you that—"

"_What?_" He gripped her harder and shook her.

"You're hurting me!"

"_What is it?_"

She clenched her teeth and ground out the words. "You're better off with someone else, Marcel. I…I don't want to be yours."

He loosened his grip on her, but not his gaze. It frightened Marguerite even more when she could not read his expression. Suddenly, his breath coming heavier, he clutched her head between his hands until she thought her eyes would burst.

"No," he said. "You little witch. You're not making a fool of me." His face contorted with wrath. Although she was still terrified, Marguerite marveled at how out of control Marcel was. She had never seen him drink to excess, never thought he would. She was afraid to look into his face, but there was nowhere else for her eyes to settle. "You're not doing this to me," he said. She had no time to react before his mouth was over hers. She was still imprisoned, horrified and choking on the heavy smell of liquor.

Her cries for help muffled and her left arm pinned against the wall, she pushed and flailed with her right hand, but he caught it, nearly crushing her fingers. When he pulled his head back, she looked at him with as much loathing as she could, yet he could see the terror on her face as well. Her head bumped against the alcove wall when she tried to step back, breathless. He only grinned and reached for her again, and she tried to kick him.

"I will have you, little Marguerite," he murmured against her neck, his breath stirring her hair until she thought she would be sick. She was suffocating from the overpowering smell of brandy. "Oh, yes, I don't care how, but you can count on it. You will be _mine_." She felt a bite and gasped. She felt his straying hands, his hips pressed against hers, and she struggled harder, to no avail. He kissed her lips again, pressing her further against the wall.

Then there was a heavy _thump_ against Marcel's head that shook her own. For an instant, his whole weight fell against her, then he crumpled to the floor. Astonished, Marguerite looked down at him, then back up. Erik stood there, gripping a vase as though he meant to send another blow. When he glanced at her, she shook her head, her eyes wild.

"Erik, if you kill him, it will be the end of everything." Even as the words spilled out of her, she did not know what she meant.

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He looked past her to the end of the hallway. It was flooded with light and people continually walked by, never glancing toward them. Still holding the vase, he stepped closer to the wall, into the shadows.

"Thank you," Marguerite said. Once again, he looked as though he wanted to say something, ask a question. Her eyes widened. Did he think she had gone with Marcel _willingly?_ "He pulled me back here, I…" She brought her hand to her mouth. "Oh, lord, I'm ruined."

"A true gentleman," he said, nudging Marcel's unconscious body with his foot.

"Are you so much better?"

He stared at her. Was he just angry, or had her words actually cut him?

"I'm sorry," she said. She looked back at where she had come from. The crowd seemed thinner; everyone was going back into the theater.

"Go," Erik said. "He was drunk and fell against the stone. Remember that."

Tears came to Marguerite's eyes. "Thank you," she said again. She rushed forward and threw her arms around his waist, burying her face in his shirt for a moment before running off again in the opposite direction. Erik stared after her, shaken by what he had just risked on her behalf. No, no, this would _not _happen again.


	14. Confession and Final Duty

**A/N: Well, here's what happens when I take a too-long break from homework...another update! I'm glad the last chapter was so well-received. It was hard to write, but I was so excited about posting it! Just so you know (as you'll read below), Marcel is not dead! This chapter is not so much fun, and there's not a lot of action, but it's necessary for the next chapter, and hopefully will generate some suspense. -evil grin- Anyway, read on, and please review!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

She had promised Erik she would come again when she received news of the Vicomte and Vicomtess returning to their home outside Paris. A week went by, then two, and as many opera performances. Marguerite saw no sign of him any of those times. She guessed Marcel would not publicly disclose what happened that night, and she was correct. He came to call on several occasions at her house, but Adele was instructed to tell him that she was not home, each and every time. Still, fear gripped her heart whenever she saw him—which, she made sure, was always in the company of others. He never approached her then, despite his threats. She was silent about what he had done to her. After all, no one would believe.

For weeks, Marguerite could sleep through the entire night without having to wake and go to the opera house. She filled her days with the normal pursuits of a woman of her class, but the dreams that came at night were a plague. Marcel captured her, again and again, and she was defenseless. She saw Erik begging her to bring Christine to him, and she ran through a thick blackness, pressing against her from all sides,to find her. Erik's dead body floated facedown in the lake. Once, she saw him remove his mask, but she woke up before she glimpsed his face. Marguerite gained no rest from these nights, and she looked just as weary as if she had stayed up all night at the _Opera Populaire_.

When the third week came, at last so did the Vicomte and Vicomtess—Marguerite read about it in the paper Adele still kept for her each morning. Her relief was like a slap in the face when she realized how much she wanted a reason to return to that subterranean lake. In the weeks without going to him, Marguerite had felt some absence, a lacking she could not describe. Had she grown so familiar with her role as his spy, his servant?

_You miss him_, came a voice to her thoughts. _How touching_.

_No, _she answered back, _I've only become used to my duty_. _He's still a blackmailer, a cheat, a murderer_.

_He saved you_. _He saved your virtue—and probably your life_.

_But he's done so many wicked things, and now I must practically hide from Marcel_. _The threat is worse than before_.

_Well, aren't you the grateful one_.

_I am grateful_.

_Oh, more than grateful, I'd wager_, persisted her other voice.

"No!" She shouted this one word to herself, tossing the newspaper as far as she could. Thank goodness she was alone.

That night she did not sleep. She dressed in a dark frock and cloak, shawl, gloves—the nights were still bitter. As always, she crept through the kitchen and out the back way, hurrying when she got to the street. Tonight, however, her footsteps echoed strangely. She stopped abruptly andheard a few more footsteps before they, too, ceased. Glancing behind her, she saw nothing, and continued on to the _Opera Populaire_. She still heard them.

There was another entrance she had found in an earlier visit, out of necessity. It was a more roundabout path, but she took it to confuse her pursuer—if she did, indeed, have a pursuer. When she was in the building and headed down to Erik's, she heard nothing but her own shoes and tense breathing.

Upon reaching the lake, she yanked the lever and pressed herself against the wall, the darkest shadows away from the water. For as long as she could, she held her breath, listening for sounds to indicate she was not alone. Nothing was heard until Erik's boat came across the water. When it bumped against the edge of the shore, he glanced around, frowning, not seeing her.

"Erik!" she whispered from her hiding place.

His eyes searched the darkness and found her. He stepped out of the boat and approached.

"I told you I would come when they returned," Marguerite said softly. She was suddenly slightly embarrassed at seeing him...after what had happened to her.

"You did." He could not clearly see her face, but fear rang in her voice, fear he had not heard from her in quite some time. "What is wrong?"

"I think someone was following me, out in the street."

Erik paused before asking, "That boy from the opera?"

The heat of humiliation poured into Marguerite's face and throughout her body, yet she began to shiver. She did not want to remember what happened,yet there was no way to forget it. "It might have been, but I can't be sure." Ashamed, she shuffled a little further away from him, still against the wall.

"So you led him down here."

"No, I'd never do that! You saved me from him." She bit her lip. "I can't thank you enough."

"Spare me the tragic heroine act. Is this your friend who told you about Christine?"

"Yes. Well...'friend' is not quite the right word."

"Was he tired of your questions?"

Was Erik asking her the reasons for Marcel's actions? Marguerite looked away. "It's not that. Everyone expects me to marry him, and he wants me to. I finally told him I don't care for him."

"Oh, why not?" he asked, sarcasm and pure bitterness saturating his tone. "Rich and handsome, he seems a young maiden's dream come true."

She looked at him sullenly. "He's condescending and artificial. Because his _pride_ was hurt, he was going to do worse to me." She smirked. "At least you never carried out your threats."

"I've never had to."

_Nonsense, _she thought. _You wouldn't_._ I know by now you wouldn't_. She was about to say this out loud when he surprised her by asking, "Why is this opera house so important to you?"

Marguerite just stared, unwilling to realize what he had just asked. "What?"

"Why do you risk so much to bring me what I ask for? Why are you so fervent about me leaving this place alone? You've told me it's important to your family, but why?"

_It has come, _she thought. She had vowed to look beneath his mask the next time she saw him. Yet she was about to remove her own. She licked her lips and took a breath before speaking.

"My father inherited a great deal of money from a relative," she said. "We moved to Paris and he bought this opera house, something he had wanted for a long time. Everyone we associate with thinks my entire family is old money. But we only pretend, to step up in society. No one knows we were once of modest income, and if they did, we would be shamed and ostracized from an opportunity my parents wanted so much." This information, to which she had so desperately clung for the past several months, sounded remarkably shallow to her now.

"And this is what _you _want?" His voice was amused this time, mocking.

"I thought I did," Marguerite said. "But I don't belong. I can't play-act anymore like when I was a child. I can't pretend to be the genteel, wealthy young lady. Christine was lucky, to still fit in with them even though some did not approve, and still don't. But I'm tired of lying, and I'm too far gone to go back where we came from." She looked up at him, wide-eyed and just comprehending how much she had confided in him. "How much of _this _can you use against me?"

Erik looked at her, and found himself with sympathy for her. Poor, naïve thing—life was a series of terrible disappointments, wasn't it? He realized how vulnerable she had shown herself to still be;he had to wonder why she felt able to tell him this. Certainly he had not expected a straightforward answer to his question, and her honesty once again startled him. How appropriate, that now he felt sorry for _her!_

"I know what it means to be hated, and to lie about yourself and never be accepted for who you really are."

Marguerite looked at him sadly. _Of course _he would know about such things. She smiled, more at herself than anything. "Strange, isn't it? You're now the only person in Paris who knows the truth about me. I'm so petty." She chuckled once, humorlessly. "You know, I told myself that the next time I came here, _I _would see what is under _your _mask."

Erik's whole being filled with dread and revulsion. "Do you still wish to see?"

She was thoughtful as she gazed into his face. "I don't suppose it matters all that much anymore. I will see it when you want me to, and not before."

He was struck by her courtesy. "Then you may never see."

Her light smile dropped. "What do you mean?"

"I have one last thing you must do for me."

She blinked. "Last?"

"Yes. Bring Christine to me, and you are under no further obligation. I will protect the opera house for you."

Marguerite's feeling of elation battled her sense of loss. She would sleep through the night, she would be free of him, and she would not have to worry about the _Opera Populaire_. No more of Erik's formidable presence, no more of his music…nothing else to break up the almost excruciating monotony of her days.Why wasn't she completely, utterly happy? All the torment from the past few months was about to be gone! True, he had just placed a terrible burden on her shoulders, but once she had done what he asked of her, it would be over.

It would be over.

"There is going to be a masquerade ball here," Marguerite said. "My father is hosting it for Mardi Gras, and if she and the Vicomte come…Well, that makes it easier."

Erik's mouth formed a slow, secretive smile. _Déjà vu_, he thought.

"Go to parties is all we do, it seems," she said. "I told you, I don't belong with them." She saw that he was deep in thought, and she lost her falsely casual tone. "Please don't go to the masquerade."

"That would be utter foolishness on my part," he said. For a moment, his memory had flown back to that one other masquerade. He had introduced _Don Juan Triumphant_ to those silly managers, and ordered them to cast Christine as the star. Then there was the performance itself, that fateful night. He shuddered to remember it. "You will have to bring Christine to me."

Marguerite had dwelled so much on what would become of Erik, should Christine never return to him, that she never dared to think of what would become of herself. Whether he got Christine back or not, he would have no need of _her_. Working for the Phantom seemed to be the only _real _thing in her life now, and she was about to lose it. She had started out hating him…and now she felt a strange need forhim...or something related to him. Could she, should she tell him somehow?

"Erik," she said, her voice quavering with tears not yet spilled, "won't you please tell me what you will do if Christine will not stay?"

He looked at her, trying so hard to keep his face steady and free of emotion. "This is my last chance to flee the underworld I have inhabited for so long. I shall truly die if she refuses this final time. There is nothing left for me." Marguerite sucked in her breath and he smiled a little. "Won't _you _be glad to be rid of me."

_No, you're wrong_, she thought.

Her fear of being followed was forgotten when she left the opera house that night. She heard nothing else suspicious. Without a sound she snuck back into the house, but her thoughts flew all over, frantic and unfocused. She curled up in bed and tried to recall a time when she felt this lonely—this abandoned—but failed.


	15. Down Once More

**A/N: Oh wow, the cheesiness of this chapter...Wow. I'm embarrassed to post it, but I have to! I can't leave the story unfinished. Enjoy, hehe! _I have no idea anymore where this is headed!_ Leave me lots of reviews and tell me what you think, because I have no mind or will of my own!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

"This is madness, Marguerite," Charlotte hissed at her. She was still peeved that Marguerite had been at the ball for five minutes, and already recognized Charlotte. After all the trouble she took on her costume! "Your fascination with the de Chagny family is too much. You've almost had me thinking you were in love with the Vicomte or something mad like that."

"I'm sorry," Marguerite said through a laugh. She glanced around the room, but there were few people she even _thought _she recognized. Charlotte had been the only one. True, everyone was in costumes and masks, but she had been absolutely certain she would recognize her friends by movements, voices, and smiles. It was supposed to be fun, but tonight…she had to accomplish something. Her stomach knotted at the thought. "Charlotte, I won't tell anyone who you are, if you'll do the same for me. Please?"

Charlotte nodded and straightened her peacock feather headdress, touching her mask to make sure it was all in place. Marguerite hurried off in the whirl of costumed dancers. She herself was bedecked in a beautiful rose-colored gown of the Renaissance style, accented in black, with a glittering black mask to match. After another few moments of moving around the perimeter, she recognized two others. Henri was disguised as a toy soldier, and Estelle was dressed as some sort of female clown. Marguerite did not speak to them, but kept her eyes focused on any sign of dark brown curls. Unfortunately, there were several heads of them. She finally gave up and went to the nearest powder room. Alone, she stood in front of the mirror and stared at herself, not wanting to do what she knew she had to. Estelle came in a little later, laughing and breathless.

"Marguerite! What are you doing alone? You should gout and enjoy yourself. I thought I recognized Marcel's parents already, so he must be here."

There was nothing she wanted to hear less than those words, but she left anyway, hardly speaking a word to her friend, who followed her out with her head cocked to one side, puzzled.

Marguerite thought back to the letter she received a few days before, from Marcel, written in a firm and obviously sober hand. She had foolishly hoped it was a plea of forgiveness, but instead it read: _This is not over, Marguerite_. _Try to hide and avoid me all you like, but eventually it will be no use_. Shuddering at the memory, she tried to push it to the back of her mind. There were to many people here; nothing was going to happen to her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a head of brown curls enter the powder room with two blondes. She followed them in at a distance and stood in a corner. The trio removed their masks, and Marguerite pressed herself further against the wall, recoiling, her pulse increasing. It _was _Christine! Now was the moment, possibly the only chance she would obtain the entire night.

She waited until they were once again masked and heading back out the door before hurrying up to her. "Madame?"

"Yes?" Christine turned around. She frowned, not recognizing Marguerite until the younger woman removed her mask, and then she gasped. "Marguerite Gautier!"

"Madame, this is important."

Her mouth formed a delicate pout. "Is this about Erik again?"

"Yes." _Of course, what else would it be?_ "You are to come with me. Down to the shore of the lake."

Christine's eyes lost some of their glimmer. "Leave me in peace, Marguerite. If I saw him again, I don't know what I'd do. Or what _he _would do."

"Madame, he is so unhappy. I feel I must do something, and I can't help him unless I bring you to him! If we go now, no one will miss us. _Please_, you must do this! I told him I would do what I could."

"_You _must stop this!" Christine's voice held more authority than ever before. "I already told you—"

"Yes, and I have spoken to Erik, and I told him all you told me to. But Madame le Vicomtess, at least come with me and tell him these things yourself! You don't know how much he wants to so much as look upon your face again. And I promised him…I _promised _him I'd bring you here. Please, for all our sakes, please follow me."

Looking as though she was about to burst into heated tears, Christine shut her eyes tightly for a moment and nodded. Marguerite took a little extra breath and smiled nervously. Christine allowed Marguerite to lead her out to the edge of the dance floor, moving around the crowd and toward a side corridor. They walked faster when several people tried to approach them, but they got the hint, and otherwise the women were not pursued.

Unless one considered the eyes of a man dressed as a Persian shah, which followed them until they disappeared around a corner.

Christine trailed behind Marguerite down to the dark hallway of the offices. Marguerite wondered if Christine's head was reeling with memories, just as hers swam with every emotion she ever felt in her life. This situation was absolutely absurd. Marguerite took the route automatically, hardly registering Christine's shuddering breaths behind her, merely staring straight ahead, trying to figure out how she had gotten herself into this situation to begin with.

After several minutes, Christine asked, "Why are you doing this for him?"

"It is his payment for leaving the opera house alone," Marguerite said, perhaps a little too quickly, too rehearsed.

"Yes, but why do I think you're not telling me everything?" The words were spoken softly, simply stating and not accusing. They hardly even invited further explanation, though Marguerite knew that's what she must have wanted.

"What do you mean?" Marguerite's heart beat faster as they went around another corner and came to the chapel. She stopped to open the door.

"Oh, my…" Christine gasped, taking a step back. "I used to come here, when I was training to be a dancer. I'd light candles for my father, and pray. Erik spoke to me through these walls that very first time, and later I heard him through the mirror in my dressing room when I began to take lessons from my Angel of Music." She hung back when Marguerite stepped inside. "No, I cannot do this!"

Marguerite grabbed Christine's hand before she could return to the party. "Madame, you said you would! You mustn't let him down."

Christine stepped hesitantly into the chapel and watched Marguerite open the grate, revealing the steep stone stairs below. "You can't merely be paying him to leave this place alone. You said he's unhappy and you want to help him."

As they descended the steps, Marguerite was silent as she tried to think of something to say that might satisfy the vicomtess. Finally, she choked out, "This is the only thing I _can _do for him! I brought him food once, but he thought it was out of pity, only pity, and…nothing. I just…I just want to help him. He won't let me, except in matters concerning _you_." She had reached, and nearly stepped over, the brink of rudeness. They reached level ground at last, and she started forward, but Christine took her arm to stop her.

"Aren't you frightened of him? Have you seen his face?"

"I _was _afraid of him, but…To be perfectly truthful, I still am, a bit. But I also have such compassion for him. I haven't seen his face—I don't need to, and I don't even know why. Only once I felt that I must, but"—she shook her head—"not any longer." She sighed and briefly glanced at the ceiling. "It doesn't really matter, does it? I've seen into his soul, and that is horrific enough."

Christine's eyes widened; she placed her hand at her chest. "Oh, Marguerite—it's no wonder he trusts you with these tasks! You've never tried to deceive him, have you." She put her hands on the younger woman's shoulders. "Whatever you do, don't try to look under that mask. I made that fatal mistake one day, and I paid for it for a long, long time. You will see it only when _he _is ready."

"I told him that myself," Marguerite said. "I told him I would not see unless he wanted me to."

"Have you heard his music?"

Closing her eyes at the mere memory of his compositions' ecstasy, Marguerite nodded. She heard Christine's frustrated sigh, and opened her eyes again.

"He is blind," Christine said, bemused. "There's no other explanation."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he doesn't see it. Not what has been right before him. I've been with you twenty minutes, and I can tell."

"Doesn't see what?" Marguerite felt a warning tickling in her stomach.

"You love him, don't you?"

Sucking in her breath slowly, Marguerite felt lightheaded. She had never said so before, even to herself, always pushing the very idea away if it sprang up in her mind. She knew the answer, but was afraid to solidify it by speaking out loud. It was impossible—unthinkable—hopeless.

"No," she said, and took a shuddering breath. Christine looked completely unconvinced. "Well—I mean, I—I shouldn't. I fully realize I shouldn't. I don't know how—or when—but I know I _can't_." She lightly covered her mouth and moaned. "Oh, madame, what must you think of me! He is being eaten alive with thoughts of you! Please go back to him. He will die if he loses this last chance to be with you forever, and I…I couldn't bear it, knowing he was gone from this earth forever."

Christine reached out and embraced her tightly. Tears poured from her eyes. "Marguerite, I see myself in you, years ago. I chose to be with Erik only to save Raoul's life, and he set me free anyway." She gulped and pulled back. "I can't leave Raoul, I don't care what Erik does or tries to do. But for your sake, I can't let Erik take his life." She shook her head. "Nor do I understand how such a genius as Erik cannot see something right in front of his face."

"It's something sort of…new for me," Marguerite said. "I've been hiding it rather well, I think. This is the first that I've admitted it even to myself, actually."

"I see," Christine said slowly, her voice pensive.

"But madame, you didn't love him?"

"When I was younger, I thought I did. He entranced me, he taught me all he knew of music—and that was everything. He brought out these feelings from inside me…I can't even begin to describe. He is a man of such depth and passion and complexity. It is easy to get caught up in that. I owe all my success as a singer to him. But Marguerite, Raoul is the love of my youth. He is my husband, my lover, and my best friend. Since I was a child I have loved him with all my heart. I can't abandon him or my son. Erik is no longer a part of my existence."

She touched Marguerite's cheek. "Take me to him. I will speak with him, and…I will do everything in my power to convince him it is futile to love me, when…" Christine took her shaking hand, and Marguerite continued to lead her to the underground lake. This time, Marguerite was the one most unwilling to get there.


	16. Last Task Complete

**A/N: Thanks, to those who reviewed, for your input on the possible endings. I was surprised that most called for E/OC, which is what I was subconsciously hoping for. I'm working on an E/C, too, so if you don't like the E/OC, read my other one when I finally start posting it.All right, all right, I'm done now. Read the story!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One! And again, the lyrics don't belong to me, I admit. But they do belong to A.L.Webber, to whom I give full credit.

When Marguerite pulled the lever to announce their presence, Christine smiled strangely and said, "Amazing." She dried her tears, but Marguerite's continued freely. How could Christine be so calm? If their places were switched, she would be inconsolably terrified. She was already, actually. Why did she have to tell the truth? Why didn't she, this one time, _want _to lie? How could she have done such an absurd thing and tell Christine she was in love with Erik! No matter how many times her mouth had gotten her into trouble, she just could not learn to stop it before it happened again.

As she was berating herself, both women heard a different sound drifting over the water. They looked up at the same timeand saw a figure floating through the mist.

_Go, _Marguerite told herself. _Leave them alone, get out of here_. _Erik won't care if you're there or not, he only wants Christine_. _He probably will not even see you standing here_._It doesn't matter what she says to try to convince him, he won't accept _you _when he finally has Christine right here with him again_. _Just go, and you'll never be missed_. _You've done all you can for him_. _Now get out of here!_ Marguerite would have fled right then—in fact, she had made a sudden step back as if to do just that—if Christine had not gripped her hand in such a way that threatened to crush her fingers.

She was frightened as well! She was about to once again see the man who loved her above anything else, and she was afraid?

Erik did not say a word as he tied up the gondola and put down the pole, not even taking his gaze off Christine, though his expression was stony. He seemed to be exerting an incredible amount of physical control over himself.His eyes were adoring upon Christine—and Christine alone—yet at the same time they dared her to turn around, to run away. When he came to her, he took her hand reverently and brought it to his lips. Christine was a queen, or a blessed saint, worshipped by this one wretched apostle.

"Christine," he said, his whisper a caress all its own, "you have come."

"I have come," she said. Her chin was quivering so slightly, and Marguerite wondered if it was only the dancing light reflected off the lake that made it appear so. Her voice seemed quite steady.

"I thought you would never return to Paris, Christine. Christine..." Oh that name! "Inever thought I'd see you again."

"Erik, please—"

"Christine, I have been waiting, so that if you ever decided to return…and you have."

"You _freed _me," she interrupted."I would have stayed with you to save Raoul, but you freed me. How is it you ask me to come back now?"

Marguerite watched this exchange in utter agony, yet she could not bring herself to leave when Christine finally let go of her hand.

Erik's throat tightened as he swallowed. "I can't live without my angel and my muse. Come with me, Christine." Oh, lord, he couldn't say that name enough. "You _know _there is nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"If it's true, then I ask you to forget me."

He stepped closer to her and stroked her cheek. "That I cannot do. Christine, you are the one who forgets. You forget_me_, your tutor. Do you owe me nothing?"

"No, Erik," she whispered. "I have not forgotten you. But if you love me as you say, give me peace. You and I…It cannot be."

Erik snorted. "Peace. Something I myself have never had the chance to possess." When Christine remained silent, he said, "Remember _Don Juan_, my dear._You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge_—"

"No!" Christine gasped, stepping back from his touch. She began to wring her hands. "Erik, no…I have come to ask you—to beg you—to turn from me. I don't belong with you, Erik. I cannot be yours."

With a sickening punch to her stomach, Marguerite was reminded of that night, that opera performance, when she had been trapped by Marcel and telling him the same thing. But _this _was nothing like it. Erik looked upon Christine with pure adulation. The Vicomte must be an incredible man if Christine would forsake Erik for him.

"Christine, Christine…"

She covered her face with her hands. "I can't live this way. I can't leave him. I can't leave my _son_."

"Even now…" Erik said. "Even now, after seeing me and remembering everything...?"

Christine sighed deeply, a sigh of disappointment and hopelessness. "Hear this. I will never forget you. How can I? But you _must _give me up." She gently took Marguerite's hand again and pulled her close. Her voice was shaky now, and she seemed to be losing her resolve. Marguerite again wished she had said nothing, a lump of panic expanding in her chest like a spectacularly growing cancer. "You told me once—fear can turn to love."

"Yes," he said.

"Erik, _this _girl has served you for months, beginning with dreadful terror, and now…" She met Marguerite's eyes before looking back at him. "Now she begs me to stay with you because she cannot bear to see you end your life."

Marguerite felt her face grow hot. She focused on the water, not wanting to lock her gaze with Erik's if he should happen to actually wish to look in her direction. _It won't matter, _she thought. _Madame, stop now! Please don't do this for me, it can't change anything…_Yet she was disgusted at herself, her cowardice, at being struck mute for once.

"She has not seen my face," Erik said. "She knows nothing."

"Because it is not important to her," Christine persisted. "I was too curious for my own good, remember? I did not even try to trust you. I had to see." She nodded toward Marguerite. "She loves you, Erik. She confessed to me minutes ago. Are you still so selfish that you would hurt us _both_ by imprisoning me and breaking her heart?"

Erik just stared between Christine and Marguerite, all manner of hurt and confusion passing over what they could see of his face.

"Please, Erik," Christine said, letting go of Marguerite,"let her love you. I cannot, and she wants to."

The only sound to be heard was their own breathing, and the lapping water as the boat scraped against the shore. At last Erik spoke again.

"She knows all I have belongs to you. You, Christine, my angel, are all I've ever wanted. Will you leave me again?"

"I already have. There's a life I'm already living," Christine's said, her voice heavy with ache and pity. She stepped closer to Erik and took his hand. "I made my choice, and you made yours. Just let me go." In that moment, Marguerite knew Christine was struggling against herself almost more than against Erik.

Erik cupped her face. "Sing for me."

Marguerite held her breath. When Christine's beautiful, ethereal voice once again echoed over stone and water, she felt agonizingly inadequate. What had she to offer Erik that he would want her, anyway? She covered her face and turned her back, still listening.

_Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye_.  
_Remember me once in a while_.  
_Please promise me you'll try_.  
_When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free,  
__If you ever find a moment, stop and think of me_…  
_Think of all the things we've shared and seen_.  
_Don't think about the way things might have been_…

Christine's face was dry, but Erik's shone with tears. She didn't love him. Oh lord, he knew he had to face it this one final time. Raoul was not here to convince her; she had come on her own. But he still wanted her with him.

He cast a quick glance at Marguerite, who leaned against a column. She was trembling violently and trying to stifle her sobs. Was Christine telling him this girl _loved _him now? How was that possible? He knew he had not treated her in a way that would have garnered _admiration_, let alone _love_…had he?

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now_. _It's in your soul that the true distortion lies_. He looked back at Christine. Did she still mean that? Whether she did or not, it was true. No one knew that better than these two women.All throughout his life, he had destroyed those of others. It was no wonder Christine didn't want him; she was probably only using Marguerite to try to ease his disappointment. Well, could he blame her?

The last note from Christine's throat lingered in the air. The time was up.

"Goodbye, Erik. I won't ever forget you, as long as I live, I swear."

He held her another moment before releasing her. "Go," he said, his voice rasping with tears. He turned his back on them both and got into his boat. Marguerite made a tiny noise of distress and stepped forward, but Christine caught her.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I've said all I could. We have to go back now, before we're both missed."

_I can't! I can't go back to the way I was_. _Am _I _supposed to forget him, too? This never happened? It's not supposed to be this way, I know it isn't_. _Must we all suffer now?_

"My teacher," Christine said, her tears beginning to flow. "Some things just can't change, but…so much could have been different."

"Madame?" Marguerite saw a strange look pass over Christine's face as Erik disappeared around a corner in his boat.

Panic?

Regret?

_Please God, no,_ Marguerite prayed.

"Erik…" Christine whispered. "What have I done? _Erik!_" She ran to the edge of the water again and called out, but there was no response. Her face twisted in agony and she sobbed. "Oh, I've murdered him!" She turned to Marguerite and wrapped her arms around her again, but the younger woman was no comfort to her. Seconds ticked by; she pulled herself away and wiped her face. "It's over now, Marguerite."

Marguerite never spoke a word as Christine took the lead up the stairs.


	17. The Real Monster

**A/N: I LOVE YOU ALL, MY READERS! I have no idea what to say to the reviews I've gotten over the past couple of chapters. You are wonderful, and I'm so happy that people are into this story and have sympathy for Marguerite. Unfortunately, I _do _have to worry about a Punjab threat (you know who you are) but too bad, this is gonna be E/OC! I can't respond to EVERY review I've gotten on this chapter (I wasn't going to respond to any, but I couldn't resist), because it's late and I'm getting tired and other reasons, but just so you know, if I don't reply to your review, it only means nothing came immediately to my mind. I'll say again, I appreciate each and every one hint hint**

**I feel like I should give a warning for this chapter so here it is: some language and violence up ahead. Brace yourselves.**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

"Marguerite," Christine asked, "aren't you coming?"

They had just ascended two staircases when Marguerite stopped and knelt on the floor. She could not face the lights and the crowd and that crude music...not just yet. She shook her head in answer.

"You go on," she said. "Leave me here."

"Oh, Marguerite, if there was something more I could do, I would, but…"

"I know there isn't." _And now Erik will die_. _What can _I _possibly do? He doesn't want me, and he can't have Christine_. _What is there left to do?_ "I'll come up soon." Christine turned to go. "Christine?" Marguerite called her back, and the Vicomtess stopped to look back at her, eyebrows raised. "Part of this is my fault. I'm so sorry for what I've put you through."

Christine nodded sadly, forgivingly,and picked up her skirts to climb another set of stairs. Marguerite remained on the dusty floor, not caring what she would look like when she returned to the ball. If she ever would. Was anything ever going to be right in this world? Erik had lost Christine for the final time, and now Marguerite had lost Erik. She had been given a greater understanding of his life, and what he must be feeling at that moment, whatever he was doing or wherever he was.

Had he drowned himself? Was he going to, if he had not already?

_Oh, God, I should have stayed! I should have affirmed Christine's words, offered to wait for him until he considered_…_what was he supposed to consider? As long as I was there at all_…_No, I just should not have been there, _ever. _What have I done, what damage have I been a part of? If there was any way I could make it right_...

"Erik, what have I done?"

Wondering if it was too late, she stood up. She had to go back and see, even if that meant swimming across the lake, forsaking every scrap of pride she ever possessed. When she turned to go back down the stairs, she heard the shuffling of human feet.

"I knew it!"

Her stomach twisted in horror. That voice…

She turned around to see a masked man in a Persian shah costume step out from the shadows and advance on her. A turban covered his hair;dark makeup disguised the rest of his skin.

"Who are you?" she whispered, though she already knew. He shoved her and she smacked against the wall.

"You were bent on humiliating me," Marcel's voice hissed from behind the disguise.

"I didn't try to—"

"But even that night I followed you," he interrupted, "I couldn't believe. The Phantom lives, and _here is his whore!_"

"No." Marguerite cried out as he grabbed her arm and spun her around, shoving her to the floor. Tearing off his mask and turban, he bent down close to her. "Don't do this!" Her words were met with a stunning slap across the mouth.

"I _said _you would be mine." He grabbed at her skirts, and she fought him, blood from her lip seeping into her mouth. He hit her every time she reached out to push him away. "How long, Marguerite? How long have you been going behind my back?"

"Stop!"

"Oh, you must think you are so clever. You've been avoiding me, I know. Were you afraid of me, my darling? Don't you know this is only for your own good?"

"Get away!" she screamed again.

"I thought you were growing rather fond of me, but it was all deceit, wasn't it? The questions, the innocent smiles…were they only to find how you could seduce a dead man? Have you given yourself to a _ghost_, Marguerite? That icy touch of death must hold some depraved appeal for you, if you allow it so."

"Marcel, it's nothing like that. You don't know—_ah!_" Her attempt at an explanation was broken off when he struck her chin. She turned over and tried to crawl away, a difficult task in the stiff corset laced up under her dress. The wooden floor put splinters in her fingers. Marcel's knee pinned her down and knocked the wind out of her. She choked on dust and the taste of her own blood as he tore open the back of her gown. "_Erik!_" she called out, the first nameto come to her mind, her most likely source of help,but he would not hear. By now he was back across the lake. Or dead.

Turning over, she kicked and flailed, but Marcel hit her back, over and over again. He tore out her hairpins and her glossy black mane fell down around her shoulders. He dug his hands into her hair until she thought he would rip off her scalp, then kissed her roughly, as he had that night up above, at the performance. Only this time, there was no odor of alcohol; he was perfectly sober.Again and again, she tried to push him away, inching toward the stairs. Each time he slapped and punched, and she hit him back, though he was stronger and inflicted far more damage.

"Why don't you call for him again?" Marcel said mockingly. He kissed her once more, biting her lips, savoring the taste of her blood he had drawn. "Call for your damned Phantom! But I suppose he disappeared." He grabbed her neck, scratching the delicate skin. "He can't have you anymore, can he? You were always _mine_, didn't you realize it?"

"I told you!" she screamed back at him. Though her lungs ached at the sheer force with which she used them, her voice sounded distant,almost belonging to someone else."I _told _you I wasn't. Let me go, you bastard!" At last, she managed to deliver a weakening kick somewhere low and scrambled to her feet. The lake was closer than the masque, and she would rather drown herself than let Marcel take what he wanted.Her vision doubling, she swayed at the top of a staircase and leaned against the wall. Something pushed against her and she tumbled, landing hard on another wooden floor. She gasped for breath as she struggled against the blackness that threatened to embrace her forever. Groaning in pain, she tried to get up, blood now dribbling from both nose and mouth. Through her swimming eyesight, she saw the open trapdoor and scrambled for it on her knees as quickly as possible. Just as Marcel was about to snatch her away, she dropped through.

When she landed on the stone, she could not stand to reach the iron lever that might gain her help. Her screams sounded feeble, even as they resonated against the walls. She heard Marcel drop down beside her. She sat up to keep fighting him and he punched her again, knocking her head against the floor. It almost crushed her willpower completely.

"Did you ever think you could escape me?" his voice rang in her ears. She felt his heavy weight upon her and heard cloth tearing; her knees ached from her pressing them together. "Aren't you sorry _now _you _ever _refused me?"

"_Please_ stop this!" She choked again, about to vomit. Unable to lift her head, her hand found a fistful of his hair and she heard his surprised shout of pain when she yanked with the strength she was rapidly losing. She tried to kick him again, but he grabbed her foot.

"You little bitch," he growled, wrenching her ankle until she could not hold back the screams.

Marguerite stretched out as far as she could above her head and just managed to grasp the edge of the stone floor. Still resisting the darkness, she pulled herself toward the water, sliding rather easily on the damp surface.

"Oh, no," he said. "You're going to _wish _you were dead. But I'm not through with you yet."

Holding her breath and bracing herself against the pain in her damaged ankle, she pulled her foot out of the shoe and tumbled into the lake. The frigid, black water closed over her head, and she began to sink, the closeness of death almost a relief. What a fitting tragedy, if she were to die here.But Marcel reached into the water and pulled her out by her hair. Coughing, she snatched at his hand, trying to save herself from his grip, but felt the fingers of his other hand close tightly around her throat. He would not let go, even when her nails dug into his wrist and drew blood.

With the last of her strength, Marguerite pushed against the edge with one hand and clutched Marcel's shirt collar with the other, accidentally pulling him into the water after her. Sputtering, he kept her afloat, if only to punish her further. Just as she gave up fighting, she realized his shouts were not directed at her. The ripples in the water changed to waves, as though something else had fallen into the lake. In a moment, she was roughly pushed out onto land by unseen hands.

Laying there beside the water, she coughed up some of it. Squinting, she saw two dark shapes struggling further out in the lake. Men grunted and cursed while water splashed, and then the sounds began to diminish. Soon only one dark figure was there—swimming toward her. She tried to inch back, but moving was too painful. She closed her eyes, almost unconscious and not caring what happened anymore. She was almost dead; what did it matter what Marcel did to her now? For all her fighting, she was going to die anyway, cold and ravaged like a whore.

Marguerite felt fingertips on her cheek and forced her eyes open again. She uttered a pitiful moan as a final plea for mercy.Through the cloud that was her vision, she barely made out a face, so blurry it was unrecognizable. She lifted her hand and brushed the fingers that touched her and felt leather, not human skin.

Marcel had not been wearing gloves.

"Don't fall asleep," came a different voice. The voice she loved most. "You may never wake up."

She heard the rush of water, more splashing, and realized she was alone. Even the slight movement of shivering pumped excruciating pain throughout her body. Her stomach tensed, but somehow refused to regurgitate. Now there was nothing to hold on to when she reached out; there was only a void, a cold and unfriendly void. Her eyes crossed, refocused, and crossed again. She wanted to shout, to call him back, to beg him not to leave her, but only coughed and dropped her hand to dangle in the water. Hoping death would not take much longer, she closed her eyes, going numb.

Just as she was about to succumb to the chill and blindness that hovered over her, she felt drops of water on her face, and she was lifted from the wet stone. She felt support at her back and knees, and, opening her eyes again, saw only blackness. She feebly pressed her hand against it and touched cloth.

She was placed on a different surface—hard, but not so cold as the stone. Something nudged her every few minutes, keeping her awake when all she wanted was sleep. She became more and more numb as the minutes passed, and then felt herself lifted again, her head flopping like a newborn baby's. Little lights flickered and danced as she was carried off, the smell of wax heavy in the air. She was settled onto a glorious softness, felt the other shoe slide off her foot, and finally gave herself up to the darkness.

**A/N: How could any of you possibly think I could bear to kill off Erik at this point? --sob!-- Have you no faith in me? Just for future reference, we have not seen the last of Christine, though it will be a while before she comes back into the story. Also, in a few more chapters, there's going to be more music…which is always good.**


	18. Wounded Love

**A/N: Yes, time for everyone to breathe a collective sigh of relief! Thank you to my loyal reviewers. -Ahem- As you can see, I'm closing in on 100 reviews, which is going to make me so very happy! That's all I really have to say now. Everything else is self-explanatory.**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

"Marguerite, wake up," she heard what seemed to be only seconds later.

She opened her eyes, confused. How long had she been this way? She blinked a few times and Erik's face—with his mask—swam into focus.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

After a few failed attempts, she managed a hoarse "Yes."

"Go back to sleep, then."

This occurred many more times throughout the night. When the morning came, Marguerite had an agonizing headache and could barely move, but her senses were mostly there.

"Do you remember anything?" Erik asked, his voice cold and somehow distant.

"I wish I didn't," she muttered, tears shaking her words. She lifted her eyes to see she lay on an enormous canopy bed of rich, heavy wood and expensive draperies. "I was going to come back," she said, still staring above her.

"You don't have t—" he began.

She ignored him. "I left Christine to come back, and he was hiding. When I got to the lake, all I could think of was drowning to save myself, and I almost succeeded." She paused, and there was silence, blessed silence for a few moments. But something inside her would not let her rest easy. "I started back to tell you myself, that...everything Christine said about me was true. I'm so sorry! And...I'm sorry...you lost her...again." She turned her head to sob, without tears, into the pillow, the intense physical pain not allowing her to turn her whole body. "Forgive me."

He looked down at the floor, unable to watch the sorrow on her face and afraid to offer her consolation. So it was not something Christine invented to make up for her rejection. It was true—but how?

"You've done nothing that needs forgiveness," he said. He waited for something else to be spoken by her, but nothing came. Only fragile sobs, which she attempted to suppress,broke the silence. Remorse began to trickle in. She _did _love him, and he could not love her back. He had given it all to Christine, and now she, too, had left him forever. There was some peace in knowing all hope was gone, but the misery of it was yet more powerful. He hardened his heart as he watched her cry.

"Could you eat something?"

She shook her head, grimacing.

He left silently, and Marguerite's heart began to hurt as much as her body. Was he angry with her? Furious that she loved him? Perhaps he was upset that he had gone to the trouble to save her. He'd done it before, but he was protecting his investment. He had said so himself. Now Christine was gone, and she was of no more use to him. Why was she here, then? Oh, he should have just left her to die!

She twisted her neck to look around the room. Against the wall stood a carved wooden bureau that matched the bed. There was a huge marble fireplace, upon which rested a lit candelabra, a small, ornate clock that declared it eight-fifteen, and a silver vase filled with dried roses. There were two chairs on either side of the fireplace, and the same dark velvet that adorned the other room hung on the walls. One of the hangingspartially covered another door, leading to an elaborate bathroom, but Marguerite was unaware of that detail. This bedroom must have been intended for Christine, and the thought made Marguerite's stomach turn. She felt like she was desecrating sacred ground.

When she looked at the clock again, she realized for the first time it was _morning_. Her parents must be frantic! What could she possibly tell them when she got home, whenever that might be.She could hardly move on the bed; there was no way she might walk. What did they think happened to her, and to Marcel? What was his family thinking?

Erik came back into the room, carrying a tray, looking reluctant and ill at ease. He set it on the little table beside the bed. Marguerite watched him mournfully.

"You don't have to do this for me. You don't have to do _anything_."

"Marguerite." It was the second time that day he had said her name. She could not remember him saying it ever before. "Is everything Christine said really true?"

"I'm sorry, Erik. She told me herself, she loves the Vicomte and cannot leave him."

"No, you little fool, I wasn't referring to _that_."

"Oh." She blushed and bit her lip before answering. "I already said it was. I know you love her deeply, and I can't change anything. But she asked me on the way down from the masquerade, and…I had to be honest."

Erik knelt at the side of the bed, their eyes at the same level. His were as icy as the day she first saw him, and she was filled with despair. "I have to know why."

"You must know why?" Marguerite closed her eyes, wishing he would spare her this disgrace. Her words came haltingly, and she stumbledover them."It's…I don't know how it started. I felt sorry for you, even when I desperately feared you. When you brought me here after I fainted, I knew it was that you needed me because of Christine, but just the fact that you helped me…I knew you could be kind, no matter the reasons. When I heard your music…it's what I loved first. Then I tried to be charitable, and when I got angry at your ingratitude, you didn't _do _anything, and I knew for sure you'd never harm me."

She did not tell him how oddly wonderful it had felt to lean into him and cry her tears of frustration, even directed at him. Nor did she tell him about wanting so much to soothe him, those countless times he was enraged and hurting with memories of Christine. She only paused and watched him. He was staring at the teapot.

"Really," she continued, "I don't know how any of it happened. But then, before I knew it,I followed your instructions because I _wanted _to. Coming here was the only time I could be honest. I told you the truth about my family,when I'd told no one else. I've never really belonged anywhere, but…I was most comfortable coming to you, to give you news of Christine, even as I was afraid of the command you held...hold. I begancomparing the boys I know to _you_, and they were lifeless and repulsive. Especially Marcel, and…you _rescued _me from him—twice! And I felt so hollow when you told me…you wouldn't need me anymore after I brought Christine to you. I didn't want to stop. I must be mad. You must think me absolutely out of my mind."

Almost every confusing thing she had thought and felt, everything she wanted to tell him, now hung in the air. He didn't say another thing, and she wondered if she should continue. It seemed she was speaking too much, even though he had demanded it. "Now what am I to do? My family must be terribly worried."

"There's nothing you can do for now," he said, perhaps a little too harshly. He reached for the teapot, and Marguerite realized there were no other tea things with it. He poured warm water into a bowl, then took a bottle and added a few drops of a strange-smelling, brownishsubstance. He picked up a cloth and dipped it into the water, then moved to sit at the edge of the bed. She felt the mattress dip under his weight and took in her breath sharply. He was so close...

"Do you think any bones are broken?" he asked as he leaned a little closer to wipe the dried blood from the corners of her mouth and under her nose. She wanted to die of shame.

"No," she whispered. "He wrenched my ankle, but I can move it a little. I'm sorry to be so much trouble."

He finished with her face and began washing the bites and scratches on her neck. She clenched her teeth as the cloth and his bare hands stroked her skin, going lower until she thought she would faint. No doubt he could feel her rapid pulse. Just as the thought passed through her mind, she made the mistake of locking her eyes with his…so brilliantly green…

She seemed unable to stop herself as she lifted her hand to rest it against his uncovered cheek. Her touch was like a jolt, and he jerked his head back. She leaned into the pillow, pressing her lips together, looking apologetic. What did she think she was doing? She drew back her hand, but he seized it and looked at her palm.

"How did you get these splinters?"

"Crawling across the floor, trying to get away," she murmured. He got up and left again, and she looked at her hands. Even in the dim light, she saw little pieces of jagged wood scattered through her fingers and palms, surrounded by puffy redness. She hoped he would not try to remove them. She would rather keep them buried under her skin than for him to touch her, however superficially, when it meant nothing to him. But a few minutes later, he came back—holding a shiny silver needle. "Please don't."

He met her pleading eyes. He had been called a beast, a demon, but he would never think of treating a woman the way Marcel had treated this one. He ignored Marguerite's appeal and clasped her wrist again. When she made a fist, he glanced back at her with a humorless smile.

"And you speak of _my _ingratitude."

"I'm sorry." She opened her hand again, feeling rather like a schoolgirl who had neglected herlessons and was about to receive punishment.

"Stop saying that." He did not say how sorry _he_ felt at having to draw more of her blood, even a few drops, when she had already lost so much to another man's violence. "Your family will have to be worried for a while longer. You're in no condition to go anywhere." He plucked out the first splinter and wiped it away. "You can write them a letter."

"And what would I—_ouch!_—say?" She jerked her hand accidentally as he removed a more stubborn piece. He gripped her hand more tightly.

"Anything but the truth. Everyone still thinks I'm dead, remember? I'd rather keep it so, and not be disturbed." His hands were skillful, working quickly.

"I mean to hold to my promise, Erik. I won't tell anyone you're still alive."

He accidentally looked at her again. Her face was gentle and wounded, but her eyes were intense, emphasized by the reflections of a few candles in the room. Her tangled black hair was almost blue in the semidarkness. With difficulty, he removed the last splinter from her right hand and took up her left.

"You can't feel this way," he said gruffly.

_Please, please just forget I said anything, forget Christine said anything, _Marguerite pleaded inside. _I'm such a fool, just ignore whatever I say, whatever I feel_._ It doesn't matter!_ But she was silent, waiting for him to continue.

"I don't deserve love of any kind, even from Christine. I've done nothing to earn it, as you will soon realize." He stopped and took a deep breath. "I can't give back, no matter what you tell me, what you feel, or what you make yourself believe. I've lived for Christine all these years. There's nothing left of me, and you will only end up heartbroken and furious at me and yourself."

He smiled again, inwardly laughing at himself. What would Christine think of this change in him? _It's in your soul that the true distortion lies_. But Marguerite did not seem to think so. Strange, after all that he had done to make Christine love him—his music, pretending to be an angel, and enticement—still he was passed over for a Vicomte, her childhood sweetheart. Marguerite loved him, when he never tried for it, never considered it,never _wanted _it. Yet here she was, by some whimsical trick of impetuous Fate.

Christine's more recent words haunted him. _Are you still so selfish that you would hurt us both by imprisoning me and breaking her heart? _Marguerite anxiously watched his expression. As he struggled to remove the rest of her splinters, they were both silent. At last he set the needle aside and wiped both her hands with the cloth. He got up and stood over her.

"Get some more sleep. Your senses should return then."

He left the room, unable to see the pain he knew he'd brought to her eyes.


	19. Alibis and Trust

**A/N: I'm sending you hugs and Hershey Kisses because I love you all SO MUCH! Thank you for the wonderful reviews and support. I'm getting all mushy here and the story is not nearly over! Okay, okay, control yourself…Aaaahh! All right, I feel better now. No, I'm still so excited, 'cause last night I became a member of Sigma Alpha Iota, my school's music honorary (technically a fraternity), and I'm thrilled! Erik would be proud of me, hehe. Just so you know, the updates this coming week will be fewer…I have mid-terms, and then, huzzah, spring break! But I will not abandon you completely. At least, I will try not to.**

**God bless you, every one! Please enjoy this longer-than-usual chapter.**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

Marguerite slept off and on throughout the day, and the intervals between Erik's visits increased. Bits and pieces of nightmares tortured her,but each time she thought she was about to die, Erik woke her. He had to make sure she had not slipped into a coma. In his visits, he grew quieter, if possible, and she was completely mute. He wanted to shrink into the shadows to sulk over giving up Christine again. Taking care of Marguerite was both a useful distraction and a glaring reminder of the pain of reality. He _was _rather resentful of her presence. If it weren't for her, he would be dead, and free. Still he cursed himself, knowing it was not her fault.

Later in the afternoon, he finally asked her how she felt.

"Tired of lying down," she said, "but I don't know if I can get up."

"You can _try_." He pulled back the sheets covering her, and his breath caught in his throat. He'd forgotten what little remained of her costume—her corset and tattered petticoats—but he was more stunned at the condition of Marguerite's legs than their uncovered state. Over the last twenty hours, the bruises had darkened and grown, covering her slender limbs in nasty shades of green, purple, and red. Her left ankle was also discolored and swollen.

Defying her pain for one second, Marguerite reached for the covers and pulled them back over herself. Her face became as red as the sheets; she said nothing, disgusted at her condition. It was every bit as bad as she felt. What must her _face _look like?

Erik went to the bureau and searched the drawers, retrieving a red and black nightgown and matching satin robe. He tossed it at her, but did not turn away. Gingerly, she eased her legs over the side of the bed and waited for the ache to fade before covering herself with the robe, offended she was beneath his gaze. She slid off the bed, putting all her weight on the right foot. For several seconds, she stood unsteadily, and then her knees gave out. With a startled cry of pain, she fell to the floor.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped as he caught her up in his arms to carry her out.

The main room possessed more light, better for him to see the harsh damage to her face. Both eyes were black, like her nose, which was fortunately unbroken. Her lips were cut and swollen, there were bruises all around her jaw, and scratches on her chest he hadn't noticed before. Wrath against Marcel filled him, but there was nothing more to do. Marguerite would not look at him. Was she afraid? Ashamed? Her hands around his neck were soft, but shaking.

"Erik," she murmured, "are you terribly furious with me?"

"Why would I be?"

"Because I'm the one who's here, when it's Christine you really want."

"Don't be childish." Despite the callousness with which he spoke, he sensed something gone from her spirit that Marcel had taken, beaten away. Her chastity had barely been rescued, but it was another thing, something inherently Marguerite, that had been snuffed like a candle. Her cuts and bruises would heal in time. That little fire inside her, however, might not be lit again. What a tragedy for her to endure! In spite of himself, Erik knew she'd never deserved any of it.

"I don't mean to be childish," Marguerite said. "But if I'm going to be any kind of bother to you, I'd rather you just leave me to die somewhere."

"Shut up," he said, setting her on the couch. Somehow her perfume from the night before had not been completely washed away. It lingered on her skin and tickled his nostrils. "You're working too hard for sympathy."

"Oh, I didn't mean that either. Nothing seems to be coming out as I meant it to sound." She paused. "Well, except…" Her voice trailed off, and he didn't ask her what she meant. She sighed, expecting him to leave her to attend to more interesting activities, whatever those might be. Instead, he stood above her and looked her squarely in the face.

"You need to eat something or you'll never recover." With that said, he disappeared into a door in the farthest side of the room.

_In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…that voice which calls to me and speaks my name…_Where had the tune come from? Marguerite hummed it to herself, unable to remember hearing it before. She looked around the room; how could it be that months ago, this place housed the man she feared most in the world? Now that she knew who the real monster was, she did not want to leave. Here, she felt safe, even if she was unloved.

A few minutes later, Erik came back, carrying toast and jam and real tea. The smell brought back a little of Marguerite's appetite. He set the tray down, obviously expecting her to serve herself. She delicately took a piece of toast and bit into it. Chewing, she poured some tea and thanked him.

"Erik," she asked timidly, "what happened to Marcel?"

His eyes were dark. "You have no reason to fear him anymore."

"Where is he?" He said nothing. "Tell me what you've done to him!" Her voice, full of alarm, was tossed back and forth between stone and water.

Finally he said, "He's at the bottom of the lake somewhere." With a smirk, he added, "He wasn't a very good swimmer." He waited for her to scream, to throw her teacup, to tell him how unnecessary his actions had been. Instead, she leaned back into the cushions, her eyes clouding and her face blank.

"I'm _thankful _he's dead," she said with a hard voice. She took another bite of toast, her eyes never leaving Erik's face. "He was crueler than you could ever be on your darkest day."

Erik moved away from her, to the organ. She had never _seen _his darkest day. He wondered how much she knew of the cruelties he had committed to save his own hide, his secrets. She was several floors beneath the opera house—with a _murderer_. Did she understand how vulnerable she made herself?

"But Erik, what are you going to do? They might come after you again." There was concern in her voice this time, genuine worry for his sake. "He's from an affluent, well-known family. You might as well have drowned the Vicomte."

"Don't forget you're missing too," he said. He heard her gasp and turned around with another ironic smile. "What might they think of _that?_"

"There must be something we can do," she said, half to herself. After a few minutes, an audacious idea came to her. "May I write a letter?" He did not answer, but helped her to his desk. He pulled out a piece of stationery and a pen before going back to sit at the organ. She wrote:

_Dear Father and Mother,_

_I apologize if I have given you cause to worry_. _Please do not be concerned, as I am perfectly all right where I am_. _I could not possibly explain at the moment, but I shall when you next see me, as will Marcel_.

_Love, Marguerite_

"There," she said. Implying she and Marcel ran off together made her ill, but people would think it anyway. She addressed the envelope to her parents and put the letter inside. How was she supposed to get it to them? Leaving it in her father's office was easiest, but would reek of the Opera Ghost. She could not walk to the house, nor could she ask Erik to make such a dangerous journey, even the small distance across town. "This should divert the blame away from you," she said to Erik, "but how is it getting to them?"

"Never mind that," he said, placing his hands on the keys. He took a breath, determined not to think of Christine for a few minutes, and pressed down. After playing the introduction of "Music of the Night," he stopped and glanced over at Marguerite. She was frozen in her seat, staring at him with hungry eyes. Christine had never, never looked at him that way. He stood up again.

"If you've eaten all you can, I think it's time you rest some more." She did not protest when he picked her up, but she grasped his waistcoat with all her strength, not wanting to let go until he deposited her back onto the bed. She moaned in pain and moved gingerly, biting her lip.

"What is it?" he asked.

She blushed. "It's nothing. I'll be comfortable in a minute." She didn't want him to leave, but neither did she want him watching her squirm until he figured out what was the matter.

"Are your ribs bruised as well?"

_Not yet_. "No, it's just…my corset is still…" her words faded, and she looked at him, grimacing. He just stared back, tight-lipped. After a moment, he picked up the nightgown he'd taken out of the bureau earlier and placed it close to her hand. Still not speaking, he helped her turn over, then sat at the edge of the bed and began to unlace her corset.

_This is highly inappropriate,_ scolded Marguerite's mind. _But I can't very well help it, can I?_

"Can you dress yourself?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered, her chin, cheeks, ears, and forehead all aflame by now. He left. As the door was closing, she wondered if he had really said the words she thought she'd heard.

"Oh, God, if only it _was _Christine."

* * *

Two days passed, more of the same. Marguerite tried to find comfort in being near Erik, but knew he was never really there. When he spoke, his voice was dead, his eyes looking through her, his mind always elsewhere. At night, with nothing to do but lay there and think about her pain, she soaked her pillow with tears, knowing that, despite it all, she did not want to be anywhere else. Did he realize how much pleasure he gave her just by allowing her to lean against him as he helped her walk across the floor? 

A few more nights into her recovery, Marguerite heard terrifying screams in a nightmare. When she opened her eyes, she still heard them—anguished, deep cries that carried through the darkness. Her first instinct was to stagger out of bed to the door, and it was this instinct she obeyed. She pulled on the robe, shaking, and slowly slid off the bed and limped across the floor.

The echoing howls and moans were louder and more fearsome in the corridor. The left-hand route led to the edge of the lake, and to the right was further down the hall, where she'd never ventured. She took the right-hand path, dizzy from the pain and leaning heavily against the wall, but remaining on her feet. At the end of the corridor was another door, and the cries were unquestionably from within. She grabbed the handle and gasped, feeling the shape of a skull. When she turned it and pushed, she was met with the eerie glow of several candles. They cast their flickering light upon a long coffin in the middle of the room. Her heart jumped and then plunged.

The agonizing sounds continued, and she looked around, squinting, for the source. A tall, black shape was leaning against the fireplace.

"Erik," she whispered, but was not heard. She wanted to go to him, but his mood seemed dangerous. Perhaps he would hate her for catching him in such a state. "Erik!" she called his name loudly. His head jerked up, but he did not turn around, and Marguerite quickly realized why. His mask lay on top of the casket.

"What are you doing here?" he rasped. "Go away!"

"What's going on?" She took several dragging steps inside, glancing nervously at the mask.

"Leave me."

"Won't you tell me what—"

"_Leave me!_" he bellowed, still not turning his face to her.

"Erik, tell me what is happening." He did not say anything, but she heard his heavy breaths. She looked at the coffin again. "Who…who is in there?"

He gave an abrasive laugh. "Me. WhenI sleep."

Marguerite just stared at him. He buried his face in his arms as he leaned against the mantle. If he was a child, she would have thought he was counting to fifty for Hide-and-Seek.

"I can't stand to see you this way. Won't you please talk to me?"

"You wouldn't possibly comprehend."

"I won't?" She took two steps closer. "I don't think you realize how much I can comprehend, Erik. I can _comprehend_ what it's like to love someone without being loved in return. I know how it feels to see that person in terrible anguish and be powerless to help or offer any comfort at all. I know rejection. I understand what horror there is in hiding one's true self from the world, and Erik…I know what it's like to be hunted."

With every sentence, she took a few small steps closer until she was right behind him. His face was still buried in his sleeves, but his silence and the stiffness in his shoulders plainly told her he listened. She reached out to brush his left arm with her fingertips. He twitched and shrank back from her. With a sigh, she gently stroked his upper back with one hand.

"Don't," he said.

"Let me be here for you, Erik."

He lifted his head, just a little, turning to the left so she only saw his profile. "You don't know what you're saying."

"You don't know that."

"Just leave," he rasped. "Get out of here."

She was not going to convince him of anything that night. Slowly she turned to go, but pausedto let her sight linger on his mask. Her fingers twitched. If she took it now, he would have no choice but to show her his face. Her hand convulsed again, damp with tense perspiration, and she ran it along the side of her robe to dry. If she took it, he would never trust her again. She looked away from the eerie whiteness, continuing to the doorway, and stopped just outside the room. When she looked back at Erik, she saw he had watched the whole thing.


	20. Stranger Than You Dreamt It

**A/N: I'm very happy I got such positive responses about the last chapter. This chapter took me forever to write and revise, and even now I'm worried about posting it, not quite sure if it completely works. It is, of course, a _very _important point in the story. I think it's going to garner an "Oh, _finally!_" sort of reaction, maybe,and _definitely _in the chapter after this! But there is sadness, of course. Reviews are so very much appreciated. I'm still sending out hugs and Hershey's Kisses to you all!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One 

* * *

Her sleep was fitful, and did not come again for a long time. When next she opened her eyes and they adjusted, she looked at the clock—it was almost seven. The golden glow of daybreak would be casting itself over the iron and stone of Paris, but she would not see it. Time stood still in the Phantom's lakeside cavern beneath the earth. There was life up above, there were people there, but Marguerite never wanted to see any of them again. Lies, all lies her life had been, and someone she trusted had betrayed her. Down with Erik was far from paradise, but she was safe…and with the man she loved, no matter how indifferent he was.

She had believed all that until last night.

That morning she did not want to get up and face whatever kind of day it might become. She stayed in bed, shivering beneath the covers, knowing she had seen too far into Erik's heart and shown too much of her own. She could not go home, but could she stay? Would Erik punish her for last night? Surely now he would cut himself off from her further, when all she wanted was to be his companion, even if he could never love her.

Marguerite's raging emotions would not allow her tears, but only caused her eyes to burn. Her stomach did several somersaults when she heard a door open and close. She curled up on her side, her back to the door. For the first time since she had been there—and it felt longer than it was—she wanted to be somewhere else. She heard the doorknob turn and the slight squeak of the hinges. She did not move or give any indication she knew he stood in the doorway, but she sensed him there.

"Your letter is sent," he said. She tried to discern his tone, but could not.

"Thank you," she whispered. He was still there, silent. Slowly, not without pain, she turned herself around and looked at him. So well-groomed, as usual, so tall and dark, elegant no matter what—and those depthless eyes, the windows to such a complex soul. Was what he hid under the mask so very revolting that it would destroy the flawlessness of the rest of him?

"Did you want to say something else?" she asked, subtly prying.

"No," he said, turning to go.

"Erik, wait." She sat up and leaned against the headboard. He stopped and turned back, his face impassive. "Please…" She lightly patted the space beside her on the edge of the bed. It was some time before Erik took those few steps toward her and sat down. She held her breath. He was so close.

There might be disastrous consequences, but she felt too compelled. Leaning forward just a bit, she reached out her hand and held it against his cheek. He did not pull back as before, nor did his expression reveal anything, as if he had steeled himself against it. But then she felt his jaw tense. She moved her hand, delicately tracing the features of the left side of his face as though she was blind. She ran her finger across his forehead and under his eye, by his cheek, and lingered over his lips. Even when he looked away, her eyes did not leave his.

Then, bracing herself, she reached out her left hand—slowly, so he had time to react—and deftly removed his mask. Still he never moved.

The skin beneath was yellowed gray, like a corpse, stretched tightly over his skull so it was eerily outlined. It was like a Death's-head, something she had only seen in illustrationsof books she had never been permitted to read when she was younger. Raised, slashing scars ran down his face on that side. One passed over his eye, set deeper into the socket than the left, and the right half of his nose was…not quite there at all. His face was half alive and...beautiful...half dead and rotting.

Marguerite felt ill. For a few moments, she could not hide the horror that came over her face. It was far more ghastly than she had imagined.

Trying to compose herself and set her face at a more impassive expression, she reminded herself it was still Erik before her.

_This is Erik_..._Erik_..._still Erik_...

Erik, with the poignant eyes…The masculine, angelic voice…The perfect beauty and strength of the rest of his face and form…The tormented soul that cried out for acceptance…The mental power of a genius…It was _all _Erik, and his face was what mattered least.

She quickly cast her eyes over his deformity, and then back to meet his stare. He was daring her to scream, to recoil in fear. He could have stopped her or left the room, and so she knew he had been ready for her to see. She stared back, wondering what to do now. She reached up and stroked his dead right cheek, then held his head, both hands on either side.

"It's all right, Erik," she said, her voice trembling. "Nothing's changed."

He picked up his mask and stood, moving away from her touch. He turned to put it back on, and left without a word. Marguerite lay back down, that haunted face burned into her vision.

* * *

"Here you have it!" Francois Gautier bellowed at his wife over breakfast when Adele brought in the mail. "Is _this _how I am to be rewarded for fatherhood?" 

Isabelle's lips parted in shock as her husband turned purple with rage. He was waving a letter he had just read. "What is it, Francois? What has happened?"

"I gave that girl everything I could, everything _I _never had. And what does she do? She's run off with that Marcel D'Aubigne brat, that's what she's done! She's _shamed _us! We'll be the laughingstock of Paris now, don't you see? Everything I hoped for, everything I worked for, _gone_. Just like that, not a single word of appreciation or apology for what was actually _done_."

Isabelle read the letter and reread it. There was no mistaking Marguerite's handwriting, and neither was there any misinterpreting the letter's message. Their daughter had run off with the D'Aubignes' youngest son. There was no one else Isabelle would have wanted her daughter to marry, but…this way? She took a shaky breath and thought, _Were they even married?_

"I suppose I can call off the police search now," Gautier continued to grumble, standing up.

"You don't want to find them now that we know what they've done?"

"Certainly not! If she's so willing to forsake her duty to her family, then so be it. May she never darken the doorway of this house _again_. I'll make sure of that. After all we've done to make a name for ourselves here in the city, after all we've been through! Deceitful little brat, after being giving everything she could possibly want."

"I can't believe she would do this to us," Isabelle said, handing him back the letter. "Worrying us like that after the ball, and…I just don't understand."

"Mark my words, we haven't heard the last of this. The D'Aubigne family will be livid about it, naturally. They're just as concerned for Marcel. They'll blame us for it, to be sure, say she seduced him away from his family, caused him to desert them all. Curse that little slut!"

"Don't say that, Francois," Isabelle said. "She's our daughter."

Gautier crumpled the letter still clutched in his hand. "Not anymore," he said, turning on his heel and leaving the dining room.

* * *

Back in his own room, Erik was fuming. It hadn't worked. Damn that girl. He had tried to frighten her away, make her see him as the monster everyone else saw him as. Why didn't she scream, or weep, or beg his forgiveness for removing his mask? He slammed his hands against the mantle and growled in frustration. What was wrong with her? 

_Christine _had seen his face and wept in horror. She was terrified of him from that moment until he released her into the boy's hands that fateful day, the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. He smirked without a trace of wit. Don Juan never did experience conquest that night. Don Juan had been made a fool of and exposed before a full house, his disguise stripped off so all the world could see his misshapenness. Erik began to shake, a forceful nausea sweeping over him when he remembered it was the woman he loved who had done that to him.

It must have been a mistake on Christine's part. He refused to believe she really meant to do it, especially after her gentle treatment the last time he saw her. She had let him down again, refused him again, but…maybe…She had been still so sweet about it, that last time, almost remorseful. And she sang. The sound of her voice, the exquisiteness _he_ had coaxed into existence…

A part of him said firmly and plainly to give her up as a lost cause. A greater part never wanted to believe he had to. As if a completely separate consciousness inside his head was guiding his thoughts, he unwillingly began to think of the other young woman, the one actually in his house, in Christine's room.

Marguerite.

Dear God, he did not want her there, and he did not want her loving him. Christine, _Christine_ was the only hope he had, and now that she was gone, what was he to do? Nothing. He tried to push Marguerite out of his mind, but she lingered, as if she was standing there in his room.

He thought back a few days…Christine had left, thankfully taking Marguerite with her. He was steering his boat away. After a few minutes, he had thought he heard Christine calling his name through the dark and the fog. No, that was not possible. It was only the madness manifesting itself. Instead of going back, he sat out on his boat, brooding and wishing for one of the water spirits to spring up, tackle him, and pull him down into the depths and end his misery for eternity.

Instead of doing it himself, what happened? He began to return to the shore, driven there for some reason. Nothing waited for him there, he _knew_ this. Perhaps he only wanted to spy on the masquerade, picking out Christine from the crowd, see her for one final time. One final time. Just like the previous time had been the last, and the time before that...

As he maneuvered the gondola, he heard a female's horrific screams and a man swearing at her. Then splashes, as a body fell into the water. He rounded the corner just in time to see a female with long black hair pull a man into the water with her. What was this? Trespassers, after all this time?

When he saw the man punch the other, he stopped thinking, ripped off his mask and cape, and dove into the water. Gasping at the cold, he struck out toward the two figures—not really fighting any longer. It seemed the girl had given up from weakness. The man came further out in the water to meet him. Erik immediately recognized Marcel and hit him in the face enough to stun him before seeing the woman he understood to be Marguerite slip under the water. He pushed her onto the stone floor just before he felt strong hands grab onto his neck. A foolish mistake on Marcel's part. After a struggle that took them further from shore, Erik shoved him under the water until the bubbles stopped and his body sank to the bottom...with a little assistance.

Marguerite was delirious when he reached her, eyes staring in unseeing fear. He assumed it was because he was unmasked, but realized she did not even recognize him. When he spoke, she sighed and closed her eyes. The naked relief on her face was tragic.

Erik ran his hands through his hair. Of all things, why did he have to bring her back? Why couldn't he have left her somewhere closer to the noise and activity of the ball, where she was sure to be discovered and taken home to be cared for by family? For the love of all that was holy, why take her to his house?

He had to ensure her safety. He couldn't just entrust her to capricious Fate. If the roles were reversed, she would have done the same for him.

Curse her.


	21. Bliss or Damnation?

**A/N: Okay, so instead of studying for a midterm, I decided I can't wait until I get y'all's reactions to this chapter, so allow me some jubilation. Yes! YES! FINALLY I get to post this chapter! FINALLY! (insert happy dance here) Oh, you will see, my dears, just why I am glad to be posting it. Please don't forget to go easy on Erik—remember how much he's been hurt in his life, and in a way, he's trying to protect Marguerite as much as himself, but that's probably going to be more obvious later on. I still can't promise a sudden change of heart from him, though at this point I guess it wouldn't be that sudden.**

**I'm so shocked, but pleasantly, at the compliments I've been getting on keeping Erik in character. So it's confession time: -whispers- He's hiding under my bed! At night I bring him out so he can proofread my chapters and sing to me for inspiration. I live in a females-only dorm, but we all know how well Erik can hide, so it's not really a problem! -winks-**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

He trusted her, Marguerite knew that now, even if he did not love her. He had come willingly, for a moment actually overcoming his pride and fear. Still, she had to wonder why he would do it at all. Was he trying to frighten her and make her leave for good? He must have fully understood when she did not take his mask away that other night. She had told him she would wait until he was ready, and she never went back on her promise. True, in removing his mask with her own hands, she was also taking a great risk—but he _let _her!

Was that hope blooming in her chest, for the first time since she could remember? It was quite an unfamiliar feeling.

She heard the organ. He was playing a slow, mournful tune that still made her shiver, but the sadness of the piece was disappointing.

_What were you expecting? Was he supposed to play something lively now that he has completely exposed himself to ridicule from the last person in the world he trusts?_

_I didn't ridicule him_, she argued.

_No, but he might still expect you to_.

_Then I have to make sure_… 

Marguerite pulled back the covers and shuffled from the bed to the dresser. She still had nothing to wear but the ruined costume and the nightgown and robe he had provided. There were several frocks inside the drawers. She stopped herself from taking one out; they were obviously intended for Christine, and she did not need to _again_ remind him of what he had lost. She looked at the dress she was clutching, half out of the drawer—it was a lovely shade of blue. Shaking her head, she pulled it out and stripped off the nightdress. The dress was too long, and because of the weight she had lost over the past month or so, it practically hung from her shoulders, but it would have to do.

Erik was still playing when she staggered down the hall and into his presence, but he did not look up. She went to one of the broken mirrors and glanced into a piece that still clung to the frame. She gasped at her appearance—pale, drawn, and black and blue, so different from when she had left her home for the masquerade ball. She quickly turned from the mirror, not wanting to see herself again. Looking back at Erik, she felt the familiar compassion stirring within her again.

He still would not look up from his playing, he was so absorbed, so _passionate_. Biting her lower lip, Marguerite limped closer until she leaned against the organ, watching his hands as he played as she had done that first time. It seemed so long ago. She stayed perfectly still as he continued, and she recognized the end of the composition when it arrived.

She swallowed and took a flustered breath as he played the last chord. He took his hands off the keys and met her gaze, still with no emotion, no mood at all on his face. Before she could get lost in those two emeralds again, she sat down on the bench beside him. His eyebrows rose in mild surprise. Still he said nothing, apparently waiting for her to speak first.

Marguerite grasped his shirt collar, pulling him to her before he could react, and kissed him with all the strength she could summon.

As her lips moved over his, she tried not to think that his arms did not enclose her, that he hardly moved. Neither did he break away. She let go of his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling the warmth of his body. For a brief moment, she felt an affectionate triumph when his lips at last softened, and she felt a returning pressure on her own mouth. When she broke it off and pulled her head back, their breaths mingling, tears were shimmering in her eyes. Erik's jaw hung slightly open, the faint bewilderment transformed to utter shock. There was a spark of fire in his eyes that quickly cooled as he regained control.

"Do you feel better?" he asked wryly, suddenly unfazed.

Marguerite gasped at his aloofness and quickly stood up. She made her way down to the sofa, shaking so violently it was difficult to walk at all. Downcast, she watched the lake, thinking herself immensely foolish. She only wanted to show him she still cared, still loved him, even after seeing beneath the façade. Had she done further damage instead, this first time she had willingly kissed a man? She laid her hand over her chest, feeling her heart pumping as though it was going to burst right out of her. A sickly heat came to her face and spread throughout her body. She went to kneel by the edge and scooped up the freezing water to wash her face. Suddenly she thought of Marcel's corpse rotting beneath the dark ripples, and she convulsed, covering her face and letting sobs wrench her weak body.

In another moment, Erik was standing beside her.

"Come on then," he said, taking her hands from her face and pulling her to her feet. She clenched her eyes shut and kept her head down, but he put a hand under her chin and tilted her face to look at him. When she opened her eyes, she saw him staring down at her, frustrated and yet…sympathetic.

"Don't worry, Erik, I'll go," she said. "As soon as I get my strength back, I'll go."

"To where?" he asked, sounding unconvinced.

"I don't know. Back home, but that would raise questions I'd rather not answer. I'll manage somehow." She lowered her eyes when she saw he was looking all over her face.

"Now you're feverish."

Marguerite stomach was quivering. What else was he to expect? "I'll be all right," she said. "It's probably…er…"

"Come," he said, taking her hand again and leading her back toward the bedroom. "You're going back to bed, and you're going to eat. I don't want another death on my head." He paused, restless, and said, "I _told _you how things really are."

"I don't care," she said. "I still want to be here."

"_Why?_" he asked, stopping in his tracks when they reached the room. "You don't make any sense, you foolish girl!" He tore off his mask. "Did you not get a good enough look? _This _is the face of the man you say you love, the angel in hell! _This _is who—I—_am!_"

Marguerite took a step back, wiping her eyes. "Erik, you are not just your face. You're a man, and that encompasses _everything _about you. There's plenty to love. If you can't see that, I guess you aren't the brilliant genius I always thought you were."

"You can't tell me this face doesn't fill you with loathing!"

"Erik…I can't lie. It _is_ a fearsome sight. But it's not who you are. You're much more than that, and…you can't let it be the only thing you see about yourself. I've been trying to tell you, trying to show you…" Her words faded away, and she shrugged lamely.

He wanted to feel victorious at her reluctant admission, but somehow could not manage it. "You'll regret it," he said vaguely, and separated himself from her to leave the room.

Marguerite's shoulders drooped when the door closed behind him, and she almost went after him again. Instead, she removed her dress and quickly pulled the nightgown back on. The frock was too pretty to sleep in so she draped it over the foot of the bed. She climbed up and leaned back into the pillows, stretching out her arms to have a good look at them. The scratches were scabbed and probably would not leave scars, but the bruises were ugly as sin. She pulled her legs out from under the sheets. They looked just as bad as well, and her ankle was still swollen and dark purple. At least she could walk. She immersed herself in the blankets again and lay down, facing the door and waiting for Erik to come back. Still exhausted, she fell asleep before he returned.

Something tickled her nose and beckoned her back to consciousness. She opened her eyes and saw a platter on the bedside table. There was a steaming bowl of soup, bread, a mug of water, and—she smiled—an apple. Her stomach cramped, whether from hunger or nausea she was not sure. With great effort, she transferred the tray to her lap and ate, all the while wondering how Erik obtained his provisions. There was so much she still did not know about him, and, sadly, probably never would.

As soon as she put the tray back on the table, there was a knock at the door and Erik came in. He immediately looked at the tray with a raised eyebrow, and she turned her head away, unable to watch him much longer. Every movement he made…

"That should help," he muttered.

"Thank you, Erik."

"It was nothing," he said, his voice low, tense.

Another moment passed, and he was still staring at the tray.

"Erik, is there anything I can do?"

He finally looked at her, his eyebrows flickering upward just slightly. "Haven't you done enough for now?" Marguerite clenched her eyes shut, embarrassed. Feeling more than a little guilty, Erik softened his tone when he asked, "What did you mean?"

"I don't want to lay here all the time like an invalid. I need to _do _something."

"Bored already? I said you'd regret it." He exited and returned in a few minutes with a heavy, leather-bound volume and handed it to her—_Great Expectations _by Charles Dickens.

"Thank you," she said. She wished she could ask him to read it to her, but knew if he did, she would not pay attention to a single word of the story. He would never do it, anyway. He only gave her a single nod, his face blank again, and he left her to the book.

She did not open it for at least fifteen minutes. Instead, she stared across the room, into the dark and empty fireplace, her thoughts scattered everywhere and nowhere. What an idiot she had made of herself yet again today! If she was not still in so much pain, she would leave at that moment. How could she think she could even try to soften his heart, a heart of stone for everyone but Christine? The damage was already done. No matter how indifferent, he was engraved on her heart and she could not rub him out. Perhaps...perhaps it was time to try?


	22. An Uncomfortable Tune

**A/N: Have I mentioned how much I love you all? Oh, yes, well I do! After posting the previous chapter I was thinking, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, what am I doing? But my confidence is once again restored. It seems that, while frustrating, the not-very-nice Erik (despite Marguerite's best efforts) remains very popular and in-character. And I was worried I was writing him too mean, silly me.**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

The next day, she could not stand to sit and read for hours on end again. Marguerite got out of bed and went out of the room, thinking briefly of peeking into Erik's, but shuddered. She couldn't; not his sanctuary, his remaining solace. When she went to the edge of the lake, she was tempted again—his boat was absent. Wondering where he could have gone, she looked up at the ceiling. Amazing, really, that her own father was in the same building, so close, and had no idea. She quickly tried to push the idea to the back of her mind.

She went to the organ, now so immensely cluttered with papers that she had to wonder how he could play it at all. Some pages were smeared, and there were drops of ink scattered over the instrument. He must have been composing furiously, and she was surprised she had heard nothing. Curious, Marguerite picked up a page of music. After reading it a couple of times, she sat at the instrument to try playing. The blasting notes from the pipes made her jump and smile at herself. Thank goodness she was alone! When she thought she knew the notes, she sang, probably not as the part called for:

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime.  
Say the word and I will follow you.  
Say you need me with you now and always.  
Anywhere you go, let me go, too!  
Love me, that's all I ask of you._

The words brought tears to her eyes. Had Erik written this, as well? It sounded very different from his usual work. She repeated it until she thought it was right. It was still sadly sub-par, even with the flattering reverberation within the cavern. Why hadn't she paid better attention during her piano lessons? Christine would have sent the tune to the heavens. Her voice that night had taken Marguerite's breath away, and it was no wonder Erik loved and missed her so. But she mustn't think about it, for Christine was gone, and soon she would be, too. She tried to play again, but kept returning to her solo voice. "_Say you love me every waking moment_. _Turn my head with talk of summertime_…"

"With extensive training, you could improve."

Marguerite shrieked and jumped up from the organ, scattering papers and knocking over the bench. She clapped a hand over her heart, her pulse fierce. "Why—didn't you tell me—you were there?" she scolded in between gasps for breath.

"I just did," he said, stepping out of the boat and up toward her, his cape fluttering behind him. Had his legs always been so long? Marguerite wondered. She looked away again, embarrassed to be staring. She had kissed him, and what sweet torment—it had felt so good.

He turned the bench right side up again and gathered the papers. "I'm still working on this piece, Marguerite. I'd ask that you not read it."

"Oh…of course." He kept picking up papers and putting them back in order.

Marguerite took a deep but tactful breath. "Erik, do you absolutely despise me?"

He looked confused. "No."

"I didn't have to see, you know."

"What are you talking about?" he asked. He turned his back on the pretense of looking through his music.

"You could have stopped me from taking off your mask, Erik. There are a number of things you could have done. But you were ready. You say you'll never love me—fine. You want me to leave when I'm all healed? All right, I'll go. Yet…you let me look upon your_ face_. Why?"

"I don't know," he said. His voice sounded almost—pleading? "Don't ask me. I don't know."

Marguerite was mulling over something else to say when he suddenly turned and faced her with a new demeanor. He tilted his head and his eyes glittered. He gave her a slow smile that was still so very disarming, even without showing any teeth. Her stomach did turns again, and she wondered what he could possibly be thinking.

"Would you like a music lesson?" he asked.

While her mouth remained silent, her heart cried out a resounding yes, and her mind stopped to consider. _He's trying to distract me from the subject, is he? Does he think I am so easily diverted? He knows the effect his music has on me_…_the effect _he _has on me_. _How convenient, isn't it, when he doesn't love me back? _Oh, why not? It would be a further opportunity to hear him play, and there was no point in trying to get him to say anything more about what _she _wanted to discuss.

"All right," she said.

He sat at the organ and handed her a sheet of music. "Can you read this?"

"The words, of course. But only some of the notes."

He sighed. "I thought you said you had taken piano lessons."

"I didn't say I was a virtuoso." Although proud of her use of the word, she still felt a bit of a failure. When he said nothing, she stood up straighter. "What do you want me to do?"

He played the tune through once, instructing her to silently follow along. Thankfully, she was able to keep track of the notes without getting lost, but the words were disconcerting. It was a different part of that same song from _Don Juan_.

_Past the point of no return,  
No going back now.  
Our passion-play has now, at last, begun.  
Past all thought of right or wrong.  
One final question:  
How long should we two wait before we're one?  
When will the blood begin to race,  
The sleeping bud burst into bloom,  
When will the flames, at last, consume us?_

Her stomach had never quite settled down, and the song did not help in the least. He stopped and twisted in his seat to look at her. She was determined to hide her unease, but had a dreaded feeling he could tell anyway. What was worse, she believed he was relishing it.

"Can you sing it now?" he asked. Against her will, she felt a blush spreading across her face. It was the last thing she wanted him to see. She glanced at him, resenting the mild amusement on his face. Did he intend to make her this uncomfortable? She only nodded, thinking she would try, and he started over. Marguerite felt her face grow even warmer. Who was she to sing in front of Erik, this musical prodigy who had probably heard more than his fair share of voices superior to hers, while his own surpassed them all? The love of his life had a voice the armies of heaven coveted, and Marguerite dared to open her mouth in his presence?

"_Past the point of no return,_" she sang, "_No going ba—_" Her voice cracked, and she gasped. She turned her head slightly and just barely saw herself in a sliver of mirror across the room. Her face was brilliantly red. "I can't do it," she said.

Erik chuckled, low and musically. "It's too high for you."

She seethed at his cruelty. Hadn't she been humbled in front of him enough? "I didn't say I could sing well, either."

"Perhaps you're an alto."

"Oh?" At least she knew what _that _meant, but she had never considered it. It never mattered.

He played a few scales, instructing her to follow along and all the while correcting her posture, head position, and flow of air. It all made a noticeable difference, in a very positive way. Though she was not ready to perform at any level, neither was she unpleasant to hear. When she was finished, Erik rested his chin in his hand. "Mademoiselle, I believe you have one of the lowest ranges I've ever heard in a woman."

Her eyes widened. "Is that bad?"

"Not at all." He smirked and went on, his voice all silk. "Nor a slight to your femininity, of course." He made her sing the scales again. He did a good job at hiding his approval, for she never suspected it.

"I always tried to sing higher, like I thought a girl ought to. I suppose that's why I thought I was just a bad singer."

He turned back to the organ and played through "The Point of No Return" in a different, lower key. "See if that's better for you," he told her when he was done. She inhaled and began.

"_Past the point of no return, no going back now_._ Our passion-play has now, at last, begun_._ Past all thought of right or wrong, one final question—_" Marguerite took a quick breath to continue, but Erik abruptly stopped playing the accompaniment and stood up.

"Enough for now." He stalked off down the hallway, disappearing into the darkness. A few seconds later, she heard his door close, and the rattle of a key in the lock. Marguerite stared after him, her mouth still slightly open, wondering what in the world she had done—if it was her fault at all. After a solid minute of dead silence, she realized he probably was not coming back out for a while. Still holding the paper in her hand, she crumpled it slightly and threw it down beside the bench, releasing a guttural scream she knew he could hear. She considered _pounding_ the organ keys, if only to break the silence and bring him back out, but wondered if that was could send him over the edge. Besides…it would be childish thing to do. There were a number of ways Marguerite did _not _want Erik to see her, a child least of all.

With nothing else to occupy herself, she wandered over to his desk and looked at his little stage. It was a perfect replication of the _Opera Populaire_'s, with little figurines dressed for an opera she did not recognize. She smiled at the thought of a grown man playing with dolls and was about to dismiss the entire setup when she noticed the figurine wearing a black mask and cape. Picking it up to examine it closer, she recognized it as Erik himself. It was his shape, his structure, both in face and body. She put it down and looked at another one, a woman. She was dressed in a Spanish peasant's outfit and carried a basket of flowers, wearing a rose in her hair. Her hair—dark brown and curly. Marguerite realized she held Christine Daae in her hand and dropped it back on the desk as though it burned her. She did not want to hate Christine for haunting Erik, but it was difficult to fight.

Marguerite rubbed her neck, trying to think of something to do. Standing for a long time still made her tired, but she was bored to death. She could _not _go back to the bedroom—disinclined to think of it as _her _bedroom. Though beautiful, she felt claustrophobic there after being cooped up for…she did not even know how long. Even as she reminded herself she was not to read his music, she looked longingly at the organ.

She cast a thoughtful glance at Erik's desk again; it was terribly messy. Was it her mother who told her that gifted men were the untidiest creatures in the world? It was true in Erik's case, at least. With a thoughtful shrug, she sat in the chair and began to straighten things. She smiled her own sinister smile. Considering the kind of man he was, Marguerite was thinking he would probably not be at all happy with the results.


	23. Rash Actions and a Tender Moment

**A/N: Finally I'm able to update again! Sorry for the week-long wait. I'm also sorry I'm not putting up any review responses for this chapter. I wish I could, but it would be too space- and time-consuming. They were all great, though (some of them were intentionally hilarious, and I busted out laughing when I read them), and I would like to give a cheer to k-dash for my 150th review! Also: Last week I read Susan Kay's _Phantom _for the very first time, and if you haven't read it, you must! It's so beautiful. It's a great companion to the original, which everyone should have already read. —cough cough— Anyway, this chapter…I'm so glad to be posting at last. It was one of my favorites to write!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

Marguerite retreated to the bedroom at last, having thoroughly cleared Erik's desk and sorted everything away. There was no sign he was about to emerge from his room. She picked up the book again and stretched out on the bed, settling in for another long read. It turned out to be not quite as long as she had expected. No more than fifteen minutes later, she heard his door open and then soft, slow footsteps down the hallway.

It was only a moment or two before they came again, quicker, and he burst into the room.

"_What do you think you're doing?_" he roared at her.

It would be useless to pretend she did not know what he was so angry about, but she wanted to make him wait. She kept her eyes glued to the paragraph she was pretending to read, turned the page, paused a bit more, and then looked up at him.

"I was bored," she said honestly, "and I felt like doing something nice for you. It's been quite some time since I had the chance." She smiled sweetly—a little too sweetly.

"Don't touch my possessions," he said slowly, as if speaking to a very, very stupid child.

She looked down at the novel, then closed it and held it out to him. "Here, then. But may I ask what you expect me to do now?"

"I don't care what you do," he said, refusing the book. "Just don't move my things, you little fool. It will take me _twice _as long to find anything because you decided to be so _nice_."

_Most assuredly he would not be so rigid with Christine_, Marguerite thought, her eyelids drooping with the weariness of constant conflict. To Erik, she said, "Your gratitude is overwhelming. Tell me: why on earth would you save my life if you don't give a damn about me?"

It was the first time he heard her swear, and his eyebrows came up for one second. They dropped again when he noticed how fiercely she looked at him. There was a sadness behind the gaze, and he was quite sure she had not meant for him to see.

"I don't know," he said, the first thing that came to mind. He saw the words hurt her, against his intentions. "No," he said, clenching his teeth, "it's…I heard screaming. I saw you, and realized I needed to know if what Christine had told me was true. When I saw it was the same idiot as before, I knew how I could _repay _you for all you've done." He laced the last sentence with as much sarcasm as he could, obscuring the truth in every word.

"Well, now you know it's true," she said wearily. When he sighed and looked away, she lost her temper and scrambled to her knees on the bed, still grasping the book. "Though honest to God, I don't know _why _anymore!" He turned his head back toward her, his eyes widening just as her arm swung to hit him. He jumped away and she leaned forward, her own force and the weight of the thick novel propelling her off the bed and landing hard on the floor.

"Temper, temper," he said as he looked steadily down at her, one corner of his mouth slowly moving upward in a half-smile.

"Aren't you one to talk," she said, embarrassed and in pain as she stood up again. "Will you always be so unreasonable whenever I try to do something kind?"

"I wouldn't call your actions so very reasonable either, really, nor very kind. But if you're not staying, it won't be a problem, will it?"

Her fury quickly dissolved, replaced by blatant anguish. "Are you in a terrible rush to get me out of here?" He only stared at her, unblinking, making her uncomfortable. She could not read his expression. She hated that, and her words became harsher than she wished. "What _did _I tell you when you asked me why I love you? I've forgotten."

Ah, _now _she knew what was on his face—anger again, and distress. Yes, there was distress, a suffering there. He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh, no," she whispered, dropping the book and going out after him. It was the first time she had run in a long while, and her ankle groaned in protest. He headed toward the edge of the lake, and she caught up with him just as he was bending down to untie the boat. She grabbed his arm. "Erik! I didn't mean that." Did she have to beg to make him understand? Could she love him and maintain _some _kind of dignity?

"Of course you didn't," he said mockingly.

"You _infuriated _me," she said, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible. "You can't blame me for that in the least! But what I said _was _untrue and uncalled for." He just kept untying the rope. "Where are you going?"

"That's none of your concern," he said.

"Can't you talk to me for—"

"_No!_"

Words were meaningless at this point. She climbed into the boat before he got in, her ankle almost folding under her. He _was _going to speak to her, or she would not let him leave her behind. He narrowed his eyes and, before she could say another thing, grabbed one side of the boat and upturned it, sending her plummeting into the lake.

The murky, freezing water erased all rationality from her mind, and Marguerite had flashbacks to the night of the masquerade—her screams, the coldness of Marcel's tone and his unforeseen brutality. Somehow she knew he was there, with her that very moment. He would either grab her from below and pull her down with him, or snatch her out and ruin her. Dark shapes and shadows in the water became _him_, and her mind clouded even as she grappled with her terror. Her arms and legs flailed, and she tried desperately to scream and drag in air when her head surfaced for an instant. Her veins ran with panic, not blood, and she choked on water. She could not think, she could only struggle for her life. He was coming for her…_No, no! Not again!_

Although it seemed hours, it was only a few seconds before Erik pulled her back onto the shore. She coughed and sputtered and shook violently. She turned her head toward the water and vomited. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she turned to fight whoever it was. No one was ever going to touch her like that again! _Oh, God, please help me! Don't let him hurt me again!_

"Marguerite!" Erik grasped her wrists, but she kicked her legs. "Stop!" At last, as Erik fought to calm her, she began to settle. Gasping, she stared at him, unblinking, the fog of memories gradually clearing away. She took a shuddering breath. It had been too real. She had seen him, coming after her again, those hazel eyes glinting with evil desire and his hands extended to tear her to shreds. After one final tremor, she was still.

Erik let go of her wrists and she leaned into him, despite being soaked to the skin. She brought her arms around his torso and buried her face in his chest. His chin rested on her hair. She knew she held him very tightly and hoped he could still breathe. She felt his arms shift and then his hands on her back, but she was too frightened to be pleased.

"I saw him," she whispered frantically. "I was living it again. Please don't let him find me!"

"He's gone, Marguerite. There's nothing to fear." Oh, lord, this was Christine and Raoul that night he watched them on the roof of the _Opera Populaire_.The Vicomte had pledged to forever love Christine and protect her. In those days, _Erik _had been the one to fear. But not by Christine! He never wanted to do anything that brought her harm.

He did not want to hurt Marguerite, either. What he had just done was rash, but not malicious. He only meant to keep her from following him.

He felt her body go limp and wondered if she had passed out again. He tilted her head up, but her eyes were open, and she smiled bravely, if tremulously, up at him. She leaned back against him, dampening his clothes, but he did not pull away from her.

"I'm sorry, Marguerite. I'd never have tipped the boat if I knew what it would do to you."

"I forgive you," she murmured. She forgave him for barking at her earlier, too, even if he did not apologize for that specifically. With a groan, she said, "You must think me the weakest woman in the world."

"No. A weak woman wouldn't have fought him like a lioness." A smile plucked at the corners of his lips. "A weak woman wouldn't have tried to hit the Opera Ghost with a rather heavy novel."

Marguerite was not looking at him, but she heard the smile in his voice and sighed in contentment she hardly dared allow herself. "I still love you, Erik. I'm going to keep telling you until you believe me."

_I do,_ he thought. _Once you told me, I never doubted you_._ But it won't do any good_.

"I know you're fighting me," she went on. "I can't make you do anything, but I would beg you to stop fighting. You're waiting for Christine, and I'm waiting for you. It appears neither will get their wish." She looked up at him again. "But you wouldn't even try for me, would you."

"It would end in pain," he said. "It always does, trust me."

"No, Erik, trust _me! _You wouldn't have to worry about losing me if you'd just…just try…" She could not believe all the things she found herself saying. Further startling herself, she scooted as close to him as was possible. "I never thought I would speak such words to a man."

Erik looked back at her, his lips parting, and her heart began to pound, thinking he was going to kiss her. Instead, he said, "You're going to catch pneumonia." He led her back to the bedroom so she could dry off and change clothes.

_You can be a gentleman when you want to be, _she thought. _I know this_. When she came out, he was sitting at the organ again, having changed into his standard casual attire—black trousers and a white shirt open to the middle of his chest—and his dark hair was disheveled. She had to stop and collect herself before speaking.

"Will you give me another lesson?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "I won't ever go near your desk again. I promise."

It was the least he could do, wasn't it? "A different song?"

_Anything, Erik, anything_, she thought. How she had changed from the girl who cowered before him the first time they met! In her wildest imaginings, she never believed it would have taken this turn. She looked at him, frustrated with his unwillingness to let her love him. He needed time to grieve his loss, but—five years? Would he need five more? How long before the aura of Christine Daae no longer clung to him like so much perfume?

"I think this song suits your voice much better," Erik was saying, knocking her from her reverie. He handed her another sheet of music.

_Child of the wilderness  
__Born into emptiness  
__Learn to be lonely  
__Learn to find your way in darkness  
__Who will be there for you,  
__Comfort and care for you?  
__Learn to be lonely  
__Learn to be your one companion_…

"Better," he said when the song was complete and Marguerite was wiping her eyes, for the stirring lyrics had squeezed at her heart. "A shame there are so few prominent alto roles. Sometimes a certain…_atmosphere_ calls for one."

Marguerite thought for a moment, eager to bring up any subject that might result in an amiable conversation with Erik. "Is Mademoiselle Montague an alto?"

"That peahen who squawked her way through the re-opening performance?" Erik laughed. "She's _nothing_. I don't know what part she thought she sang. She's worse than La Carlotta, though I never thought I'd say so. At least Montague had the grace not to demand the lead, like Mademoiselle Debeteaux."

"I thought she was fine. Perhaps she was nervous."

"That's no excuse. If one has true talent, one needn't be nervous about showing it. At least not a nervousness which would affect one's performance Although perhaps she _should _have feared being shot halfway through the first act. It would have put her out of her misery, as well as the audience."

Marguerite was surprised at his flippant tone. "Well, I know _I _would never have the nerve to sing in front of a group," Marguerite said. "But that's not anything to worry about," she added with a laugh, imitating her mother. "Daughters of high society don't perform onstage."

"I've heard," Erik said. "So what _do_ they do?"

"They marry well, gossip, drink tea,and raise children to be just like them. And then…nothing. But I don't want to do nothing."

"Then what do you want to do?" His tone was becoming low and cajoling.

"I…I-I don't know. I never really thought about it before." She smiled, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood. Her smile dropped when he extended his hand toward her.

Confused and intrigued, she looked at it, noticing for the first time that he wore no gloves that day. After another moment's hesitation, she placed her own, much smaller hand in his palm, and his fingers closed around it. He leaned forward, bringing it to his lips. His eyes never left hers, and she felt liquid fire sweeping through her. The kiss traveled up her arm and down her back, and she shivered. Her hand still imprisoned in his, she stepped back, her eyes wide.

"It's getting late."

"Not _too _late, I hope," Erik whispered, gently pulling her closer. She closed her eyes at his tone of voice, feeling unusually timid and anxious.

"I should be resting," she said.

His breath was in her ear and she told herself not to faint. "Yes, you've had a tiring day."

She opened her eyes, and he moved back. "Good night, Erik," she said, her voice shaky and her knees even more so when she stepped away and slowly retreated to her room.


	24. Misunderstandings

**A/N: Here's a much quicker update since last time took a while. All I can really say is…don't get too comfortable.**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

Yes, the hour was late, but it had only been an excuse.

Marguerite had never felt so awake before. She pressed clammy palms against her flushed cheeks and fiercely willed her heart to stop galloping like a stallion. There was no reason for it; after all, what had happened? He kissed her hand—plenty of other men had done so. It was an act of affectionate courtesy.

Not like that.

Was he starting to see her differently? If it were true, the roles were now reversed, and she was the one terrified. This was not the fear she felt toward him when he was just _The Phantom_ to her. It was not the horror Marcel had planted inside her when he accosted her at the opera performance, which grew until he tried to rape her and only ended with his not-so-untimely death. Whatever she was feeling now, it was fright of a completely different sort, utterly new and confounding. But not unwarranted—and certainly not unwanted.

She paced all over the room and tried to collect her thoughts. She had kissed Erik herself, on the _mouth_, and had felt feverish with the pleasure, though miserable at his minimal response. But his voluntary kiss on her hand minutes ago had nearly cost her her mind, sending her senses spiraling and her legs trembling. It was so very, very different. She really _must _be weak. After all this time, she might be about to elicit a favorable outcome, and she was no longer sure what she was doing. The thought brought out a harsh laugh at herself. Since when was she ever sure of anything?

Marguerite stayed quiet, listening, wondering if Erik was going to come. What would she do if he did? She could lose herself in him, she knew, and it would never be the way she ever meant for it to happen. Glancing at the doorknob, she saw no key, but there were several other bolts in the door. Oh, would she _really_ lock him out?

The sound of his footsteps drifted to her ears, and she saw his shadow through the space beneath the door. He paused for several seconds. She held her breath, not daring to move, and he passed her by. She sighed and flopped onto the bed, not sure whether she was more relieved or disappointed. Suddenly, the footsteps came again, and she sat back up. The knob turned and the door was pushed open without permission and hardly a warning. Erik stood there, candles sending flickering light across his tall, slim figure.

_Just breathe_, she told herself, for she had no words.

The silence was unbearable before he at last said, "Do you know how susceptible you've made yourself?"

Her mouth opened slightly, ready to speak words she still could not form.

"Madman," he said. With every title he gave himself, Erik took one step closer to her. "Murderer. Thief. Living Corpse…Dark Seducer."

Marguerite watched him with dread. Had she escaped one lunatic only to fall prey to another?

He grinned, only slightly, his voice strangely flat. "And you would choose his company. He could do anything to you, you know." He stretched out his arm and lightly brushed her throat, where her pulse was working rapidly. "No one would have to find out. You've seen for yourself the depths to which I will plunge." His breathing remained regular, but came hissing through his teeth, sounding more abnormal than it really was. It rendered his voice just that much colder when he asked, "_How _can you love such a man?"

Marguerite's lungs did not seem able to take in quite enough air, and she feared another faint that would leave her utterly at his mercy. She tried to speak, but his fingertips came to her lips, and she remained silent. He knelt before her and held both his hands to her neck.

"I don't understand," she finally whispered. "Erik, why have you come?"

Though he said nothing, the look in his eyes was potent.

"Erik?" Her voice was small and soft, and she shrank back from him a little.

He choked out a single gruff laugh. "Even you are repulsed by my presence and shy away from my touch." He closed his eyes, pure abhorrence toward himself clearly seen on the unmasked half of his face.

Marguerite regained some of her courage and lost a bit of the fear which had so rapidly rekindled. She placed her hands on his own and said, "Erik, I'm afraid of what you make me feel. It's nothing like repulsion, it's…something I've never known before. But I still…" She sighed. "Will you not have any more confidence in me? Very well. Soon I will be able to go for good. But I don't want to unless you _tell _me you don't want me here. In all this time, you've never said one way or the other."

Her words were more sensible, her eyes drier, and her voice stronger than anything she truly felt inside, and she had no idea how she made them so. She loved him, wanted him, and if he asked her to leave, she might break into pieces. Improper though it was to remain with him this way, perfectly healthy and with no understanding of any sort, she wished for no other fate than to be connected to him forever. She would marry him if he asked her. If only he were not so cursed—not by his face, but his unreciprocated love for Christine Daae—Marguerite would allow herself more hope than she had previously possessed.

When he stood and towered over her, silent, Marguerite's wide eyes followed him. After a minute or so he bent down again, and she wondered how he would form a response. She kept looking forward, her eyes glued to the doorway, as his face came perilously close to the side of her head. Her eyelids drooped and her lips parted slightly, waiting for Erik's, expecting Erik's, and at the sound of his voice, low and steady, her eyes slid closed completely.

"We shall see," he said, his mouth just barely making contact with hertemple as he spoke. With that, he left Marguerite once again stirred and baffled.

It was a long time before she fell asleep.

* * *

She woke up flustered by dreams, and angry when she saw how last night he had been completely playing with her emotions. He still gave her no promises, no certain answers, no conditions! Only a strange indifference occasionally broken with a surprising sweetness or crueler sarcasm, whichever fit his whim at the time. He was intolerable, really, an absolute pain. What did he expect of her now? 

Irritated at him, she remained in bed, listening for sounds of his movement. She heard none, but that did not mean anything. He could have left, he could be asleep (the least likely), or he could simply be stirring about as silently as a cat, as he was so often inclined to do. And Marguerite refused to believe it was for her benefit, that it was so _she _would not be disturbed. Reluctant to stir from her place or even think about the day ahead, she lay with her back to the door and stared at the wall hangings.

Erik made his footsteps heard. She curled up and closed her eyes, supposedlyoccupied with slumber. He opened her door again without knocking. This was getting to be too much.

After half a second: "I've seen you sleep enough to know when you're pretending."

He could not see her eyes open, could he? Perhaps he could hear her lids moving, her lashes brushing. Except for that, Marguerite did not move or make a sound, even when she heard him approach. With all her resolve, she kept herself from gasping when she felt the mattress dip with the weight of another body.

"You're far too tense," he said. "When you sleep, you are so relaxed one might think you had no bones." He paused, but she still said nothing. "And you're holding your breath, I can tell. Did you expect me to believe, for one moment, that you were not awake?" He chuckled softly. "Even if you could sing on the stage, my dear, you cannot act."

When she felt a finger touch her hair, close to her ear, Marguerite flinched and flung herself from the bed, against the wall. She leaned against it, shaking, and stared at him with fury and fire. What did he think he was doing? If he continued with this disconcerting dance of his, this farce, she most certainly would be unable to remain one more minute beneath his roof, no matter what _she _was feeling.

Erik reclined on the bed, his eyebrows arched and his eyes wide in surprise and amusement. He propped himself up on one elbow and spoke with mock innocence.

"You're a bit jumpy this morning, Marguerite. Did you not sleep well?"

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice low.

His eyes darkened. "Oh? You've never seemed to mind before."

"_Please_. My affections for you do _not _grant you permission to make me into some kind of plaything. I will not be toyed with, Erik. If you feel nothing for me, then kindly express it appropriately!" She took her robe from the floor and hastily wrapped it around herself. She turned her back on him, keeping her face toward a corner in a poor attempt to hide her pain. She would _not _weep in front of him now. She would maintain herself, have complete control over herself.

Good lord, everything she had told him last night, pouring her heart out _yet again _to him, had been true! She had hoped he only wanted reassurance of her regard for him. She thought perhaps he was offended when she so quickly retreated to her room after he kissed her hand. Oh, how very amusing of her, how imprudent and naïve, to think so! He had entered her room with far different intentions, and she knew this last night, of course, but had tried to reason it away.

She dug her fists into her eyes, finally able to understand things as they _really _were. How she loved him, and yet to him, she was just a distraction. She was only something with which he could occupy his mind—and eventually his body—to drive Christine out of his heart and exorcise his demons. He did not love Marguerite, and he never would. With a moan, she slapped her palms against the wall.

"I have been such a _fool!_" she cried. She looked back over her shoulder to see Erik still there, sitting up on the bed and waiting, as if he were a schoolboy waiting to recite his lesson. "Oh, yes, very much a fool."

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"I thought you were beginning to care," she said, "about…_something _about me. Perhaps I'm only vain and selfish to think so, hoping against all hope." She wrinkled her nose a little in disgust. "You would use me, wouldn't you? Last night, I thought…thought you were about to. I don't know what I could have done. You're far stronger than Marcel, and there would be no one to rescue me from _you_." She turned back to face the wall, leaning her forehead against its cool surface. "Not all men can be such fiends."

Erik removed himself from the bed and went to stand behind her.

"If I really wanted to use you the same way that bastard tried, I have already had innumerable opportunities, don't you think?" Before she even realized what he was doing, he grabbed Marguerite's wrists and spun her around to face him. He pinned her hands against the wall above her head, coming so close her nose almost bumped into his chest. She squirmed, but could not remove herself from his grasp, and her legs were hardly capable of supporting her.

"Do you see how easy it is?" he asked as she gasped, winded. He brought himself closer, until his whole body nearly had her pressed to the wall, completely trapped. "Do you feel _better_, knowing that I would never force you into such circumstances with foul intentions in mind?" He let go, and she hurried to the farthest side of the room, all color dissolved from her face. "Well, just in case you don't, your door has bolts and locks. Feel free to use them. In fact, perhaps you ought to. There's no telling what a _fiend _like myself is inclined to do!" He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Marguerite crumpled to the floor in front of the fireplace, weaving her fingers through her hair in frustration. Her tangled emotions went far beyond any tears.


	25. Twisted Every Way

**A/N: I was so afraid I was just going to get a bunch of reviews saying "WTF?" But of course, you guys never disappointed me! What didn't surprise me was the collective frustration at how Erik and Marguerite keep missing each other, emotionally. Just as I planned, muahahaha! You obviously aren't too angry with Erik, but PLEASE don't hate Marguerite after this chapter! Remember she's very confused and Erik _is _very frustrating, as much as we all love him. I wish I could just give in and write a ton of gratuitous fluff, but—**_sigh_**—I have a story to tell. It has a long way to go before it's completion, and there's going to be more twists and bumps in the road, starting _now_…**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

Marguerite sat and stared into the cold, empty fireplace for what seemed like hours. She knew what she had to do, but…she couldn't. Or rather, she did not want to make herself. Being constantly under the same roof as Erik was taxing. Impossible, actually. He was a walking, breathing, singing paradox, and somehow she felt more at home with him than anywhere else. She knew things could not go on as they were, and yet he no longer seemed to be showing evidence of any change of heart. If only he would, she thought, but Marguerite could live a lifetime feeding off "if only" and never amend a thing.

After a few more minutes of thinking, she decided what she would do. She would wash up, dress herself, and steal his boat to cross the lake. How she was to accomplish this without his knowledge was beyond her, but she would have to try. Soon she would see the sunlight and the crowds, and smell the city of Paris again, smell _life _again. She would go to her parents' house, but she needed to come up with a rather amazing excuse for her overlong absence from home.

First things first—she had to get herself clean. There was an elegant bathroom behind her room, and it was about time she took advantage of it. Although dreading having to leave, she was glad to be feeling finally able to take care of herself again.

A deep breath helped to quell the nagging doubt inside her as she prepared her bath and chose a dress—still ill-fitting. Curse Christine for being tall! Marguerite brushed out her hair for the first time in God only knew how long. Several tangles nearly drove her to tears with the pain of fighting them. She was dangerously close to looking for scissors, a knife, or even a sharp letter opener to cut them out. Eventually, however, she prevailed over her hair, and it tumbled down her back in a filthy mess that, after some work and lots of soap,was soon clean and glossy again. A good scrub to her skin, with tenderness to the cuts that yet remained and threatened to scar, removed the grime and brought a temporary rosy glow. She felt like a new woman, and could smile at herself now in the mirror.

She was doing just that when Erik knocked on the door. It served only as a warning, however, for he came in before she could say anything. Upon seeing her, he, too, lost the ability. Without a single scornful, callous comment escaping his mouth, Marguerite found it much easier to smile directly at him, as well. She at least ought to be friendly to Erik before she ran away from him.

"I can't tell you how much better I feel now," she said.

He stepped further inside, leaving the door open. "Good," he said with little inflection.

She turned back to the mirror, using a comb she had foundto work through the tangles that a vigorous washing had put back in her hair. She looked up and saw his reflection, coming closer to her own. It made an interesting picture—Erik with his dark hair, glittering green eyes, and white mask hiding a frightening imperfection. Then there was Marguerite with her own black mane, stormy gray eyes, and an alabaster complexion ransacked with scratches and bruises. _What a pair, _she thought ironically and wondered if Erik noticed the comparable features.

_You're leaving_, she told herself. _You can't be thinking about such things_.

"You didn't lock your door," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders.

She was taken aback, wondering what he meant in that statement. Did he approve? _Should _she have done so? She closed her eyes when he bent down and touched his forehead to the back of her skull, slowly inhaling.

_No, _she thought, _not now after I've become so resolved_.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

His head remained tilted downward, but his eyes looked up into hers through the mirror. "The scent of a woman's hair is one of the most pleasurable in the world," he answered, rubbing a lock of hers between his fingers. "There may be a long time yet before my next opportunity."

Always such obscure words! If only she could understand them half the time. "I suppose I should be flattered," she mumbled, watching a blush creep across her reflection's face. _Stop it!_

"Indeed you may," he said, stepping back from her and unexpectedly changing the subject. "Are you in need of further reading material?"

Marguerite blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I can get you something else to read if you need it. I have a decently sized collection here, quite enough to keep you occupied, I believe. More Dickens, or _Treasure Island_, _Beowulf_, Shakespeare." He smirked. "_Pride and Prejudice_."

"Thank you," she said, "but I have no need for more reading right now."

"Suit yourself," he said as he was leaving, "but you will not enter that room while I am gone."

_Gone?_ She dropped the comb and walked out just in time to see him disappearing behind a curtain that had hung over a broken mirror frame. The frame, in fact, was also a doorway. So there _was _another way to the outside world! That made taking the boat easier. She would run no risk of accidentally meeting him on his way back, and he would not think she meant to follow him.

Marguerite took her time arranging her hair into a long, simple braid, anxiously wondering if Erik would storm in again. Deciding he would not, and that it was time to take her leave, she reinserted her earrings and hooked her necklace back on. She had taken them off after Erik brought her there after the masquerade, and it was the first time she was wearing them since. A little shaky, she put on her shoes and cloak and looked one last time around the darkly beautiful room which had come to be hers. She picked up _Great Expectations _and placed it beside the door of Erik's room before going to untie the boat.

If the situation were not so miserable, she would have laughed so hard at her ineptitude that she would fall into the water. Erik made steering the boat look so easy. But then, he also made composing entire operas and singing with an unearthly beautiful voice seem effortless, as well.

The water's sound became music as she haltingly steered her way through the damp tunnels and narrow canals. She could have sworn she heard ghostly whispers, and refused to look down at the water, terrified at what she might see there. The realization that these murmurs were Erik's only company for so many years of his life almost made her try to turn the gondola around. But Marguerite finally brought it to the opposite shore after an infuriatingly long time. By then, Erik could have returned to see the boat gone, left again, and made his way around to wait for her! She half-hoped he would, but when she stepped out of the boat, she was completely alone.

As she climbed the stairs for the first time since that fateful night of the masquerade, Marguerite could not subdue the feeling of dread churning inside her. She wondered if there was another lustful lunatic waiting in a corridor somewhere. Perhaps Erik was no longer the only ghost residing in the _Opera Populaire_. If there was anyone who would rise as a vengeful spirit bent on destruction, it was sure to be Marcel. Aggressive, deceptive, and hateful in life, he had also suffered a violent death with unfinished business. Marguerite forbade herself to think of him, or to look anywhere but straight ahead, else she would lose her wits.

When she crept around for one of the exits she used to use, she was relieved to find it was still too early in the day for many people to be around, even if there was to be a performance that night. The ballet girls would be practicing in their dormitories, perhaps, if they even began so early. The singers would be resting their vocal chords, and any stage hands would not recognize the owner's daughter, as Marguerite rarely met any of them.

At last she reached the outside world and stumbled back against the side of the building as daylight struck her full in the face. When was the last time she had seen the sun? A fortnight? Two months? A year? She had lost all track of time. The chilling breeze scraped her face as it blew by. She pulled the hood of her cloak further over her head and headed off in the direction of her house.

It was dangerous to be out in broad daylight in the middle of the day. Most of the people about were workers and middle-class shoppers—no one she would have had contact with before. Closing in on her own neighborhood, however, she began to recognize faces and carriages, and she kept her head down and her stride steady with great difficulty. She recognized Henri's mother and sister, but looked away from them and did not see the inquisitive glance they sent after her.

Her hesitation grew with each step closer to the house, but at last she reached it and ascended the steps to the front door. Her knock was timid. She obscured her face as best she could, holding a hand casually—she hoped—in front of her mouth and tugging at her hood. A frowning Adele answered the door.

"Yes?" Her brow knitted at the sight of a strange, small woman on the steps.

"Adele," she whispered, "it's Marguerite."

"Mam'selle?" The maid's eyes widened, and her mouth gaped. "You have come back!"

"For a little while," she said. She stepped closer, but Adele did not move back or open the door wider. Marguerite looked at her questioningly. "Will you not let me in?"

"Your parents have ordered—if you were to ever return—you are not welcome in this house."

Marguerite stood and blinked for several seconds before the words fully sunk in. "_What?_" She could not have heard Adele correctly. Something was wrong.

"They said you have shamed them beyond all forgiveness by running away with Monsieur Marcel D'Aubigne. The elder Monsieur and Madame D'Aubigne say you lured their son away from his family and convinced him to take you away. Your parents were furious when they got your letter. Mam'selle, you…they have disowned you."

"Please, God, no," Marguerite moaned, her hands covering her face. "I never meant for any of this to happen."

"I am sorry, Mam'selle. But…they did give me orders, and—"

Marguerite cleared her throat. "Is my mother home now?"

"No. And your father—that is, Monsieur—he is in his office, at the Opera. Perhaps you might go there and speak to him, if he is to be—"

"What about my cat, Beatrice?"

Adele bit her lip. "They put her out, but I've been leaving food for her once in a while." Her brown eyes were sad as she looked at Marguerite. "I can't bear to see a living thing suffer in the cold."

Marguerite managed a weak smile. "Thank you." She reached to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, and her hood slipped down. Adele gasped at the sight of her face.

"Mam'selle! What happened to you?" Adele asked, shocked and staring at the scabs on her face and the fading bruises around her nose, eyes, and jaw line.

Marguerite gasped and covered her cheeks. "It's nothing, really…I…I had a little accident about a week ago." _How long had it really been? _She tried to chuckle. "The curse of such pale skin. The smallest injury stands out like a gaping wound."

"But it's all over—"

"Never mind it," Marguerite snapped. "I'm sorry, but…I suppose I mustn't linger here, if things really are as you say they are."

"Do…do you wish me to tell them you've been here?"

"No, I don't suppose that is necessary," she said. "No, thank you." She swallowed more tears. "All the best to you, Adele." She turned and went back down the steps to the sidewalk, hearing the door close behind her. What was she to do? She had no friends who would welcome her under their roof, not after the false gossip Marguerite _knew _had spread about her through their social circle. Well, she _had _done some of it to herself.

She also had no money for transportation out of Paris.

Now what?

The answer came from the ground, the tiniest meow, and when Marguerite looked, she saw Beatrice staring up at her with those enormous, unblinking eyes full of feline wisdom. With a dry sob, she picked her up. Once she felt the weight and divine softness of her beloved pet, she could not hold back the tears. She kept her head down as she hurried back toward the _Opera Populaire_. Beatrice, as though aware of how important it was, did not squirm in Marguerite's arms.

Perhaps she could pretend it never happened, that she had never left, and just returned to Erik's house. She _could _just go back and will herself to believe that Erik was madly in love with her, and he wanted her to stay with him forever. But then, Marguerite always did hate having to pretend. Even when she was a child, she disliked the game of make believe, never getting much satisfaction from it. She wanted everything to be _real_. Her imagination was never quite enough for her, little bedtime stories and puppet shows in the village were not enough. And now that she was older, she knew for sure…fairy tales never came true.


	26. So Lost, So Helpless

**A/N: This is the saddest chapter I've written so far, I think. Marguerite's story is sad, of course, but writing Erik's innermost thoughts was so painful I almost started crying. But I've written far enough that I see the light at the end of the tunnel (oops, did I give away too much? —wink—) so I'm happy. Unfortunately, you all will be sad after you read this one...**

**This update is only because I love you all so very much. Otherwise it would not be so quick! And if you've noticed, I'm almost at 200 reviews! Yeeeah! Hmmm...I wonder if I could make it to 300 by the time this story is over? One more thing: A long time ago I said that Christine would be back in the story. I may have lied about that, because when I wrote that I had a completely different ending in mind. So I don't think she'll be back, but you never know.**

Disclaimer: Yeah, you know it

* * *

With nowhere else to go, Marguerite turned her steps back toward the _Opera Populaire_. The walk was not so quick and simple in the daytime as in the dead of night, with hardly anyone else around. She was afraid Beatrice would begin to wiggle against her gentle grip as she made her way through the crowded streets. If the cat escaped now, when she was so needed as the one comfort taken from home, Marguerite would not be able to maintain any kind of composure. She would humiliate herself in the middle of Paris before innumerable strangers.

She stood at a corner and waited for carriages to pass. Because of the hood of her cloak, she did not notice the woman who came to stand beside her. When Marguerite leaned forward to look down the street and see if she could continue on her way, the older woman spoke, and Marguerite finally _did _see her, horrified.

"You!" Celine D'Aubigne gasped. "I cannot believe you dare to show your face at all! What have you done with my son?"

Marguerite's mouth hung open, stunned and speechless. How stupid did she have to be to come out into the light of day! _Oh God, Jesus, what do I tell this woman? What could possibly appease her?_

"Madame D'Aubigne," she mumbled submissively, "I am indeed surprised to see you here."

"I'm sure you are, you little harlot!" The older woman turned her bulky frame to face Marguerite head-on. "I see you have your little cat with you. Did you go to your family's house to beg forgiveness? Yes, I knew they would turn you out. You deserve worse for what you've done!"

"Madame—" Marguerite started to say.

"My son is too fine to be seduced away by the likes of you, you good-for-nothing fraud! If I find out where you've gone into hiding, you can be sure I will have my husband send the Paris police force to lock you up and bring our Marcel home to be safe from your wickedness, and you shall never see him again!"

Marguerite turned her back and ran down the sidewalk, veering from her intended path if only to escape that woman who spoke without heart or thought.

She had no way to explain herself! With Marcel's death, she thought justice had been served, but there were punishments in this world for those who bothered to help themselves. If they only knew…Erik would be caught and killed. No matter that it was in Marguerite's defense, no matter that Marcel did not deserve to live anyway. Erik was the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, and he had taken the life of an aristocrat.

Tears blurred her vision and Beatrice scratched her arm in fear at the sudden change of pace. If she had not run away at that second, Marguerite might have tried to kill Madame D'Aubigne herself. What an awful, awful woman, making such false accusations with no idea what she was saying! It would be laughable if she wasn't so…afraid.

She hurried around city blocks, going out of her way to avoid another chance meeting. Beatrice wriggled around so much she placed her on the ground, hoping she would not run away. The cat followed, but eventually Marguerite turned around and did not see the rusty tabby anywhere, and she felt her heart squeezed tightly, despair flooding her, and wishing she had not put her down.

At last she arrived at the opera and found one of the secret entrances she had so often used before, but could not bring herself to go in. What had driven her to return to this place at all? She leaned against the building and sank to the ground. Bringing her knees to her chin, she wrapped her arms around them. Knowing she was completely and utterly alone, knowing no one came around to this particular corner of the structure, she let her misery and sorrow wash over her, and she shook with violent sobs.

_God, God! What am I going to do now? I have no family, nowhere to go, not a single possession to call my own_. _I have nothing but an ambiguous existence in the opera house, right under my father's nose, with a man whose feelings for me I have no assurance of! I no longer even have my cat_.

After a few minutes of soaking in her anguish, an idea slowly bloomed. She had to carve out her own life. Sitting there against the cold wall, she realized she had never lived on her own, on any level. For long enough she had been under Erik's hospitality. She was still in pain and bore marks of a beating, but she could manage.

Her silent prayers were answered when she heard another chirrup and saw Beatrice trotting toward her. Marguerite scooped her up, nuzzling the top of her head. _Thank You,_ she thought, standing up again. With a last glance around at the opera house, she set off in a direction she had never gone before. If she was going to be independent, the first thing she would need was money, and that was difficult to obtain honestly.

_What are you doing? _screeched that incessant voice in her head._ You would not leave unless he asked you, you know_. _You _said _that yourself! You lied to him, and you said you'd never do that, either_. _How is he to learn to trust another human being when you deceive him like this?_

Her other half retorted, _I'm sure there's no stopping him from finding me and bringing me back if he _really _wanted me_. _But of course he doesn't_. _Who am I, after all, but an inconvenience, a little errand girl who has long ceased to be useful, whose welcome has been worn out for quite some time? He'll be most glad I left_.

What about last night? Yesterday? He all but told you there's a chance that he might— No! I won't listen to you anymore. If I do, I shall go mad! She turned down another street, the neighborhood beginning look far less wealthy than her own. With some repugnance, she noticed a pub and wondered if it was still very early for many to be out drinking. Her guess was correct. It was almost empty when she entered, leaving Beatrice outside and hoping she would stay close. It looked to be a rather questionable establishment, with a few seedy characters inside, but not the worst that could exist. Besides, she needed money, and this seemed as good a place as any to find employment. She took a deep breath and went to the bar as quietly as possible, but the patrons there could not help but notice her. Heads turned toward her and she kept her own tilted downward. 

"Pardon me, monsieur," she said softly to the bartender, who came to stand in front of her.

"What can I get you, mam'selle?"

"I'm looking for work."

His expression grew more and more unfriendly, almost hateful when he narrowed his eyes. "I don't hire girls like you. Why don't you try the whorehouse on Rue Jaune?"

Her jaw dropped. "How dare you! I never meant that!"

"Oh, that's right," he said with a mocking smile. "You came here to mop floors."

"If that's what you need—"

"Get out of here!" Cheeks aflame, she stalked out of the place, every eye upon her, and a vulgar whistle or two followed.

* * *

Erik was surprised, but not entirely shocked, when he found no sign of Marguerite anywhere in his house upon his return. The boat was gone, but he surmised he would find it on the opposite shore if he went out onto Rue Scribe again and made his way back around. But first, he decided to wait. He had gone out on an inspection of the _Opera Populaire_, just for curiosity, while there were few human beings around. Perhaps Marguerite had finally decided she wanted to see her father in his office, if he was there, and give him some other excuse for her disappearance. Erik had not gone near the management offices; it could explain why he had not seen her. 

After several hours, he left again to retrieve his boat. It was right where he expected it to be, and he waited another half hour—hour? He lost track. Fully realizing she was not coming back, he returned to his home in the boat. Marguerite wouldn't be needing it.

So she was finally gone. Well, he got what he had wanted—at first. He fought against the disappointment knocking at his door, but eventually lost and flopped into the chair at his desk. It was almost as cluttered as it had been before she cleaned it up. She had been so bored…and so willing to please him somehow.

Again! He had been a cold, selfish bastard _again! _Over and over he had challenged her, tried her, and questioned her affections. She had been an unwavering pillar, never taking back her claim to love him. Something inside her must have snapped and driven her to leave. How could he have expected anything else? Real, true love was supposed to endure any number of trials, but Erik should have known there was no love on earth strong enough to endure _him_. He had never shown her kindness—only indifferent courtesy, only reluctant hospitality, nothing close to what she deserved. And somehow, a flower had bloomed in the darkness. She grew up during the time she spent in his home—indeed, since he first met her. He had noticed, despite his every attempt to deny it. Now his chance was gone forever, his second chance at _life_.

_Damn you, Erik! Why don't you just die and go to Hell and be done with it? You've already been there and back several times, you're already cursed_. _Why not make it eternal?_

"I can't," he said out loud. "I can't do it!"

It was the only thing he knew for sure he could _not _do.

His temper increased and burned. Without thinking, he picked up the miniature stage from his desk and dashed it against the floor. After raging and smashing it to pieces, Erik scattered it into the lake. The little human figurines followed—even Christine's—but for his own. The carving of himself, as Don Juan, he held over a candle until it was engulfed in flames, and then dropped it to the stone at his feet and watched it smolder.

He couldn't die. He had to cling to this only existence he had, not wanting to see what lay beyond. But he could still hate himself. Oh, yes, he despised himself with a greater passion than any _love _he ever felt.

Going against her constant pledges, Marguerite had left, after swearing to never stop loving him, after begging him to try for her. Perhaps she had gone back on her word, but it was not her fault. Erik had driven her away, he knew, and she was never coming back. She tried to convince him he was a man, not a demon to be hated, but she quickly learned, hadn't she? She had fallen in love with a monster, an angel in hell. All that was left for her was to forget him.

_Oh God, _he thought, he prayed, for the first time since he could remember, _don't let her suffer out there_. _I don't want anything from You, I've never asked anything from You_._ This isn't for me_. _Let her go home, let her be loved the way she deserves, and let her forget _me. _If You are at all merciful, don't allow her any more pain than she's already endured_.

The agony of his own foul past surpassed Marguerite's significantly, of course. But from what she had told him, and from what he had seen for himself, Erik realized a young woman like her had endured more than her fair share of hardships. Even excluding the heartbreak he had forced her to endure. Wealth was not everything, and although she, or at least her parents, possessed it, it had obviously not brought her contentment. It took her from a familiar country life and forced her into high society and under the notice of a predatory young man, and under the Opera Ghost's blackmail. She was an outsider…just like him.

She would have stayed.

_Will you always hurt those who try to reach you? You pushed away anyone who ever wanted to help, and you frightened Christine right into Raoul's arms_. _And suddenly, there was Marguerite, who came to love you without question, and you pushed her out as well_. _What if that was your last chance to redeem yourself?_ _You missed it, and you are just the monster everyone says you are—the ghost, with no humanity about you_.

Perhaps the Lord was merciful, but Erik wasn't. He knew, deep down, he himself was the cause of much of the sorrow Marguerite had borne. Even if he went in search of her, even if he could humble himself to ask forgiveness, she would never return. She had suffered too much because of him, and there was no mercy in asking her to come back. He could only hope her family would be sympathetic, that they would take her back, and she would eventually find some blue-blooded gentleman who actually deserved her devotion—someone less like Marcel and more like…Raoul de Chagny.


	27. Yearning for Guidance

**A/N: All right! I was wondering what reactions I would get from Erik's last thought in that chapter. Most of you let it by without comment, but I got some rather _violent_ reviews, all quite amusing. Now I feel I should explain myself. Generally I believe Raoul is a sweet guy who genuinely loves Christine. Even though he IS a fop, he has many good qualities (such as, he's never killed anyone). They try to make him a swashbuckling fop in the movie, he is still a fop. I dislike fics that make him a villain, but some of them can pull it off. AND although my first "phanphic" is E/OC, I'm an E/C-er more than you might think. But I also think Erik would have recognized why Christine didn't stay w/ him in the end (murder and stalking, for example). So if Erik hopes Marguerite will find love elsewhere, I think he would understand a man like Raoul (sweet, protective, and wealthy, despite his foppitude) is the next best choice. **

**My basic argument: Raoul is a good guy, Erik made mistakes, but I still prefer Erik. That's it. So what's Marguerite going to do? We shall see.**

Disclaimer: I dreamed a dream in time gone by…that the Phaaaaantom of the Opera was here…and mine, all mine. Alas, it is not so, I confess. So don't sue me, all right?

* * *

"I would not think of hiring someone like you if my wife weren't so ill," he said, "and unable to help me in this store as much as she used to."

"Monsieur Bontecou, I will not disappoint you," Marguerite said. "I can do whatever you ask of me."

"Very well. Tomorrow morning you will come in at seven to help me open. Make sure the store is clean and organized, but you will _not _be speaking to the customers. I deal with them myself, alone. They know me. Your job is to _do _your job the best you can without being noticed. Understood?"

"Perfectly."

"You will run errands for me if I need them, and make sure everything is tidy all throughout the day. When we close the store, you will stay to straighten up afterwards. I know my ledger and my inventory _intimately_, mademoiselle. If one page is missing from the shelves or one penny from the drawers, I will know of it."

"I would not dream of taking a single thing I haven't earned," she said.

"I should hope not," the old man said. "You may go, Mademoiselle…Fasset, is it? Tomorrow at seven. Make sure your cat stays outside this time."

Marguerite stumbled out of _Livres Bontecou_, ready to sneeze from smelling dust and musty books. At least she had found employment, however meager, after searching all afternoon. No one seemed to want to hire her. There was nothing about the bookstore's owner that immediately endeared him to her, certainly. He was a rather greasy, stingy old man with a ratty-looking wife who had peeked at her from the back room with beady black eyes and a bulbous nose.

Well, now Marguerite would have some kind of income, and before long she would have enough to get out of the city. All that was left to obtain was a place to live until then. Unfortunately, now was not the time to search for some apartment. She was still without cash, and had one last chance to get some before beginning work.

Fortunately, it did not take her long before she saw a sign for a pawn shop. The air was more chilled and the shadows were lengthening, and Marguerite saw that the store seemed about to close. The man working there was none too pleased to see her.

"I shall be brief, monsieur," was the first thing Marguerite said to him. She took off her earrings and necklace and placed them on the counter. "How much will you give me for these?"

His eyes widened as he looked over the intricate combination of gold and pearls. "Where did a lass like you come across these?"

"They're mine," she said. "A birthday gift." Only a few hours ago, she would have been mortally offended that someone suspected her of stealing anything. However, in less than a day on the more common streets of Paris, she came to understand why a woman with a pretty trinket or dress to flaunt was looked down upon. A silk dress—well-worn and out of style, of course, but still rather lovely—combined with the scratches on her face, loosely braided hair, and the shadows under her eyes gave the incorrect impression of a streetwalker. Fortunately, in the light of day Marguerite had received no propositions.

She left the shop with enough money to buy herself something to eat and several nights of lodging. Before she could do either, she looked up at the quickly darkening sky and noticed a cross at the top of one of the towering buildings. She took a deep breath and decided to go into the church to pray. Her talented little feline was hopefully lingering somewhere close by, having followed her all over since leaving that first pub. As Marguerite headed toward the church, Beatrice came out of nowhere and sniffed around at the sidewalk behind her.

The enormous, heavy doors sent a deafening echo through the sanctuary when she pulled them open and stepped inside. The stained-glass windows were beautiful and forbidding. She stared up at them, slowly moving down the center aisle, and then her gaze flitted over each Station of the Cross. Further to the front, in a corner left of the altar, stood a display of candles. Less than half of them were lit. Marguerite made her way there and lit four candles, one for each of her dead siblings—three of which she had never met. Wiping a stray tear from her eye, she went to sit in one of the pews, leaning her head against the back of the seat in front of her.

_Have I done the right thing? _she asked. _Lord, will You tell me? If I only knew_…_if I had some idea that I would be welcome, I _would _go back_. _What makes me hesitate? I have nothing now, absolutely nothing_. _Will You please help me? Will You show me how_…

Her body seemed to cry out in fatigue, and she stretched out on the seat. She felt another calling within her, a yearning other than the spiritual anguish she had poured out before God, and she felt embarrassed to have such feelings in a church. She never meant to drift off into unconsciousness, but when she imagined a canopy above her head, silk beneath her, and Erik in his room down the hall, it was rather easy.

* * *

Box 5 was strangely lacking, even with four people inside instead of the usual three. 

Erik watched the opera, his presence not at all sensed by the occupants of his old box—the owner, his wife, and two slightly older guests. But no Marguerite. Monsieur and Madame Gautier were very composed, considering their daughter had returned to them that afternoon after having been missing for quite some time. Of course she could not have been expected to attend such a formal event so soon after turning up unexpectedly. Erik squinted at Isabelle. Would a mother not remain at home with her prodigal daughter? Dear God, what else could she possible do but stay behind and dote upon her, plying her with endless questions of her previous whereabouts and doing everything possible to create some warm homecoming?

He thought of Madame Giry and Meg and their closeness that had, even then, touched him deeply. His familial love had been…lacking, to say the least. His father died before his birth and his mother despised the very existence of her only son. Erik always earnestly hoped his experience had been an exception to the rule, and the warmth between the Girys seemed to prove it so. Then, there was Marguerite's mother.

A sick feeling clamped onto his mind and into his gut, rendering him imprisoned so he could do nothing but dwell upon it. What if Marguerite had never made it back to her parents' house? Could she have been delayed somehow, completely prevented from returning to them? Erik immediately thought of Marcel, though he was thankfully dead and gone. Certainly there was one man who had desired her.

_Two_, Erik thought. He could finally admit, to himself at least, that he was another.

There might be more. In fact, it was quite likely there were more, and if one of them caught Marguerite alone, on the streets of Paris on her way home…Especially now, in the evening's darkness, there were so many dangers that could befall a young woman out on her own. The raw city was no place for such as she.

But then, back when she was under his blackmail, when he still hoped for Christine, she had made her way to the _Opera Populaire _countless times with no trouble whatsoever. Thinking about that did not make him feel better. What if something had happened to her _then?_ He would have felt far less guilt, but things had certainly changed. With her gone from his life, if she was in trouble he had no way of knowing, and no way of helping her.

Unseen, he left his post over Box 5, stifling a groan. What was he supposed to do? If he sought her out, could he bring her back? If she was to return at all—and he was quite sure she never would—it would be up to her. Should he manage to find her in the city, what would he possibly say? _You don't have to come back_. _I just want to make sure you're all right_. Oh, yes, that would work marvelously well.

"She's gone," he whispered, moving away from the auditorium, down the narrow hallway where Marcel had first forced his attentions upon Marguerite. "She's gone, and she's not coming back, ever. Why would she be coming back to you?"

This was not the agony he felt after Christine left him—both times—but it was a numb desperation, knowing his last chance was over. Why did he have to be so stubborn and difficult with her? Just because she was not Christine. There was only one Christine, after all, and she was with Raoul, the man she really wanted. What was left for Erik, then?

Marguerite was certainly much more than just a consolation prize. If that was _all _Erik wanted, he could have kidnapped any one of the little ballet rats to satisfy himself. He could have taken Marguerite a long time ago. His yearning for Marguerite was mental, as well. She was a comfort to him. He knew now that even if she had not returned after Christine refused him one last time, he would have begun to miss her on some level.

When he returned to his house beyond the lake, Erik sat at the organ and played a requiem for her.

* * *

"Wake up, child, you can't sleep here." 

Marguerite opened her eyes to semidarkness and sat up quickly. In her rest, she had forgotten that Erik's face would _not _be the first one she would see upon awakening again. Now she looked into the suspicious blue eyes of the priest who had just nudged her shoulder to stir her. With another glance around, Marguerite remembered her surroundings. She had entered a church to seek absolution, to find solace, and had fallen asleep in a pew.

"I'm sorry, Father," she said. "But I need sanctuary."

"This is not a poorhouse," he said.

"But it is God's house!"

"What can you desire sanctuary from? You show no fear."

"It's not quite like that," Marguerite tried to explain. "My heart is broken."

The priest chuckled bitterly. "Young women's hearts are always breaking."

She frowned. _O Lord, is this the best Your servants can do?_ "I have taken a course of action I'm not sure is correct. I wish to know what my Heavenly Father says, for my earthly father will have nothing to do with me. I receive nothing but pain when I try to do the right thing, and I wish to know why."

Wrinkling his brow, the priest said, "We do not always do what is right even when we think it so. Perhaps, whatever you did, you only _believed _was the right thing."

Marguerite blinked back tears. "I can't bear to think that."

"What is it you have done that you question?" His voice lost the sternness with which he had first addressed her, and he seemed much more compassionate.

Marguerite leaned forward and touched her forehead to the pew in front, as she had the night before. What could she tell him without revealing absolutely everything? She desperately wanted human contact, and yet she could not betray her identity, or Erik's.

"I lied about myself to protect someone else," she said. "Now my parents have cast me out, and I am alone."

"The Lord is with you always."

"Yes," she said, sitting back, "but I have left someone else alone, as well…because I was afraid. I thought it was what I was supposed to do, but now I'm no longer sure."

"Did you leave a man you love?"

She swallowed and closed her eyes. "Yes."

After many seconds of wretched silence, the priest said, "'It is not good that man should be alone,' said the Lord. Why did you leave?"

"Many reasons." Yes, she knew them all…and could not say. Man should not be alone? Perhaps, but at that moment she still wanted to be alone more than anything. She stood from the seat and moved back into the aisle. Without another word she turned and left, hoping he would not follow her or attempt to find out who she was. As she stepped out into the predawn darkness, she heard bells toll six times. Perhaps she had a chance to find lodging for that night before having to report for work.


	28. Burning Glances, Turning Heads

**A/N: Fondest greetings to you all…I should have waited a bit longer to post this, I suppose. But I just can't wait to get reactions to the terrible cliffhanger that you will encounter at the end of this chapter. —insert maniacal laugh here—**

**Enormous hugs to each and every last one of you! **

**A word of caution: The first scene may look familiar, but it's not, I assure you. However, it is important, and someone I'm sure you all forgot is re-introduced here. Actually, there's another character introduced later on in the chapter, too…But I say too much! Read on!**

Disclaimer: You know how it works.

* * *

With a furtive glance around, Marguerite stepped out of the store. She had just ended another day of work, which had taken her until the sky was black and studded with stars. She desperately hoped she could remember the way to the boarding-house in the dark. The streets were eerily quiet, and she found herself completely alone with her thoughts. In the daytime, she could keep herself busy and absorbed in the sounds and sights of the city. When the lights went out in Paris and nighttime's blanket settled over them all, she had nothing to do but pine for Erik.

Was he all right? Did he think of her at all, or had she been quickly and easily forgotten? Countless times she considered justreturning toplead with him to forgive her for going back on her promise and asking him to let her stay forever. Then again, she had numerous reasons for leaving in the first place, and no reason to believe he would still want her...if he ever did. He certainly was not looking for her. She was not so far away from the _Opera Populaire_, and if Erik had begun to search, he was not the sort to give up easily. She guessed he was not even trying.

Coming around a corner, she hesitated. Four men were standing further ahead, on the other side of the street. Suddenly her footsteps seemed far too loud, even as she tried to walk quietly in the darkest shadows of the buildings. She was sure her heartbeat, growing faster by the second, was louder still. She stopped and leaned against the side of a building, waiting for them to move on. Her hands felt clammy and every muscle her body was tensed to flee.

The men began to cross the street, directly into her path, and Marguerite would have no choice but to meet them if she kept walking. She wished she had learned more than one route to her apartment; she would try to find one herself if she wasn't so worried about getting lost. She took a deep breath and resumed her pace.

Despite the lack of proper lighting, she saw they were quite young, barely older than herself. Three of them turned toward her and smiled. One hung back, and she could not see his face in the shadows cast over it. She stopped in her tracks, the rest of the way blocked off. A particularly unappealing-looking man stepped away from the group, approaching her.

"_Bonsoir_, mademoiselle," he said, grinning and looking her up and down. "You shouldn't be strolling about the streets of Paris alone at this hour." The others chuckled and nudged each other. Marguerite began to suspect they had been drinking. She tried to head to the opposite side of the street and avoid them, but he grabbed her arm.

"We're in need of a little female company, as you must see. I ask you, stay a bit longer."

"Let go of me," she said. His grip was gentle, but the touch made her skin crawl. She had the terrible sensation of walking through a dark doorway hung with unseen cobwebs. He laughed, apparently considering the whole thing a great joke.

"She is unconvinced," he said over his shoulder to his smirking comrades. Turning back to Marguerite, he said, "Name your price, mademoiselle. You will find us rather charming and—accommodating—acquaintances."

Wrenching her arm from his hold, she said, "Leave me alone, please."

"Oh, such a high and mighty lady," another man spoke up. "Ought we try and persuade her?"

"Take a look at her face," the third said, "and then see what you're actually trying to buy!"

Marguerite tried to grab his wrist, but the first man's hand flung back the hood of her cloak. She staggered back, into the scanty light of a streetlamp, and four pairs of eyebrows rose.

"I say," said the second, "not hard to look at, are you?" He chuckled again. "If the rest of her is just as pretty, I think I'll be getting my money's worth tonight."

"I'm not…I'm not working," she whispered.

"But you _could _be," he said, misunderstanding her.

Tears stung the back of her eyes as she glanced over the young men's clothing and rings. Yes, they were gentlemen of considerable fortune, all of them. If she agreed, she might just make enough money to get out of the city before her parents, or Marcel's parents, found out where she was. But she knew she could not sink so low, could not commit such a sin as that. _Erik, where are you?_

Wherever he was, he couldn't be close.

She stared hatefully into their faces and spat at their feet.

As the three looked around at each other, insulted and mortified, the fourth young gentleman cleared his throat. Until now, he had been silent, standing a bit back from the rest. But when Marguerite's head was revealed, he had gasped in recognition. Now he moved toward her hesitantly. Marguerite turned disbelieving eyes toward him, but could not deny the familiarity of his short stature. She took in the dark blonde hair, watery light brown eyes, and thin moustache. It was Henri Laroche, once a would-be suitor.

"Leave her alone," he said to the others before turning back to Marguerite.

"Monsieur Laroche," she said, glancing up at him and then quickly dropping her gaze.

"Mademoiselle Marguerite—" he was about to use her surname, but stopped himself. "It has been a while."

The voice of one of his friends broke into the awkward conversation. "You know this wench, Henri? My boy, I didn't know you had it in you!"

Henri turned around and shoved him roughly. "Do as she says and leave her alone! You better go home as well, before you make a further ass of yourself." He turned back to Marguerite. "My apologies, mademoiselle. Are you going to be all right?"

She nodded. "Yes, monsieur. I am grateful for your kindness." Not wanting to see his quizzical expression at being addressed with so little familiarity, she covered her head again and hurried away toward her tiny, dingy flat. Nothing else delayed her further, and she silently entered the building and climbed the stairs to her room. Inside, she threw herself on the bed, weeping as quietly as she could manage before finally falling asleep, Beatrice curled up at her stomach.

* * *

Erik stealthily moved across the unoccupied catwalks of the opera, completely unnoticed. Below him, the dancers were assembling for rehearsal under Madame Luvier. Watching them, Erik thought back at how much better Madame Giry had been. Luvier was decent enough, but she lacked Giry's discipline and pure talent. Bored with the proceedings, he moved across the stage and into a narrow passageway above a main corridor. Two ballerinas were talking to each other in the shadows, apparently in no hurry to get to their practice session. 

"He's in a terrible temper today," Celine said, her big blue eyes growing even wider as she tossed her head of strawberry blonde curls. "Bianca said he positively _roared _at her when she didn't move out of his way fast enough. I don't understand. He's usually quite agreeable."

"Haven't you heard?" Amelie asked, grinning. "His daughter's run off."

"What are you talking about?"

"She went missing shortly after Mardi Gras. Turns out she wrote her parents and told her she eloped with the son of some wealthy family. That's as much as I know, and Monsieur Gautier was absolutely livid about it. Apparently the young man's family isn't too pleased, either."

"Really?" Celine giggled. "It's about time we had some new gossip around here. Who is his daughter, anyway?"

"I think her name is Marguerite. Or I could just be thinking of _Faust_. I've only seen her a few times, and never actually met her. Becca said she's quite pleasant. She's pretty, anyway, though I think a bit _lacking _in feminine curves," she giggled. "Black hair, porcelain skin—like Snow White—and the biggest gray eyes I've ever seen."

Far above them, Erik seethed. He didn't need to be reminded.

"So did she run off or was she taken?" Celine's bright brown eyes twinkled with concealed impishness.

Amelie laughed. "How awful you are! Come on then, we better get to rehearsal, or Madame Luvier will have our heads."

"Oh, that's right," Celine groaned. "She's got that friend of hers coming to oversee it later on."

"Come along! She'll kill us when she sees we're late!"

Celine grinned. "Better her than the Opera Ghost."

"Oh, _honestly!_ Please tell me you don't believe those stories."

"Well, nothing has happened," Celine said. "Wasn't the Opera Ghost an evil spirit or some such thing? He dropped props on people's heads and interrupted performances and even _killed_ someone. There's been not a hitch in anything since the _Opera Populaire _reopened. If he was real, he would have surely shown himself by now."

"True," Amelia agreed. "Perhaps Monsieur Gautier is just lucky."

Celine chuckled. "Considering what you've told me of his daughter, I find it hard to agree with you."

As they finally hurried off down the hall, they were completely unaware of being overheard by the Opera Ghost himself. Erik had not been exposed to any information he already knew or could have guessed, and it irked him. He paced back and forth. Stupid ballet girls—they never changed! Well, it wasn't their fault they knew so little. In fact, Erik was surprised at how much they _did _know. He had been haunting Gautier's office in particular the last several days, listening through grates and secret passageways. The man never mentioned his daughter to anyone, even during the one brief visit his own wife paid him. Had they been furious enough to punish her when she went back home? If they had, how would it be done?

Erik told himself time after time to no longer concern himself with Marguerite. He could not help it; he felt somehow responsible for her. He tried to stay angry with her for leaving. It hadn't worked. If she had returned to her parents' home, what had they done with her? If she hadn't gone back to them, where else could she be?

_Doubtless she's someplace better than being in a sewer with you_. _Beauty deserves the light, and raw hideousness such as yours must be shut up in the darkest recesses of the world_. _That's why you're here, secluded in the death and darkness of your own opera house, while she is out there among the living_.

Among the living…

With a whirl of his cloak, Erik headed back to the lake and his cavernous house. He had that terrible sensation of being a caged animal again. It was maddening, sweeping back into his mind memories of the gypsies and the enormous amount of his own life he had spent on the run from humanity. He used to leave the _Opera Populaire_ quite frequently during the night. Perhaps it was time to pay the outside world a little visit again and concentrate his mind on something else.

As he watched from his hideaway outside Rue Scribe, darkness came crawling over the sky. Erik threw on a cloak with a hood large enough to shroud his whole face. It had been too long since he had fresh air, and it was something of a relief. He would go out on a solitary evening stroll, and then back to his hovel. But he was not going to look for _her_, that much he told himself.

* * *

"No, no, over there," Madame Bontecou said to Marguerite. "My husband always puts the latest ones over there." 

"But over _here _would draw more attention," Marguerite said, pointing to a different set of shelves by the front window. She tried not to let her impatience show. By now, at the end of another empty day, she just wanted the last customer to leave so they could close for the night.

"We're trying to sell books that have been here forever. Everyone wants to try the new copies, so they'll look for them anyway."

With a shrug, Marguerite conceded, not wanting to upset her employer's wife. The old woman really was not as cold and waspish as she seemed at first, but Marguerite was uncomfortable around her. She was always glad to be left alone to run the errands and dust shelves, or sweep the floor after every mud-tracking customer. Madame Bontecou had a terrible habit of _hovering _over one's shoulder.

The woman sighed and retreated to the building's upper level, where she lived with her husband. Marguerite leaned the broom against the wall in a back corner until she would need it again. The only customer in the store now was speaking to Bontecou, and he did not look as though he would spread much dirt around the floor while he was there. She wandered behind a bookshelf, pretending to inspect the order of the volumes on display when she was really just looking for something to read.

_Last of the Mohicans_, by some American author, caught her eye and she pulled it off the shelf. She did not know how long she stood there, riveted to the novel, before the jingling of the bell over the door abruptly pulled her back to real life. Peeking around to see who had entered, she clapped her hand over her own mouth to silence a gasp of surprise.

"May I help you, monsieur?" asked Bontecou.


	29. Two Visitors

**A/N: Well, that was rather cruel of me, wasn't it? I only hope an extra-long chapter will make up for it, though I have my doubts! WOW, you guys. Really…wow. The most reviews I've gotten on a story yet, and for that I thank each and every one of you sincerely!**

Disclaimer: And so it goes, and so it goes… 

"I beg your pardon," said Henri, "but do you happen to have a young lady employed here by the name—"

Marguerite hurried up to him with a friendly greeting before he could say her real name. Bontecou was reluctant to remove himself from the conversation with his other customer, and appeared greatly relieved when Marguerite stepped forward.

Abandoning all decorum, Marguerite seized Henri's wrist and half-dragged him behind a set of shelves, out of sight of Bontecou and hopefully out of earshot as well.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"Mademoiselle…Gautier…" Henri said quietly, stumbling over her name. She did not correct him as long as Bontecou didn't catch it. "I am…I was so surprised to see you last night." A little more color came into his cheeks, for which Marguerite was grateful. It showed he was uncomfortable with discussing the previous evening—as a true gentleman ought to be.

"I was rather surprised to see you as well, Monsieur Laroche," she said. Her voice held a chill she hoped he would notice, yet not take too much to heart. "I never considered _you _to be the kind of man who would find amusement by spending his free evenings 'slumming' with friends."

"Please allow me to apologize, mademoiselle, for their behavior last night. They can be rather uncouth when they've had too much to drink."

"I've noticed."

"I assure you, if I had known immediately it was you—"

"But any other innocent girl would have been fair game?"

His cheeks turned from pink to crimson. "Mademoiselle, I never meant it that way."

"So be it," she said with a very unladylike shrug. It was so funny. The last time she had seen Henri, before last night, she thought she'd had everything under control. She was such the high-class lady, a new member of the aristocracy, with not a care in the world. How dark her life had become! Now she was not in the least concerned for what Henri thought of her; she no longer had her eye on any gentleman. Small talk about the weather and gentle flirting never even entered her train of thought.

Henri was speaking again. "If I may ask…I heard you and Marcel D'Aubigne were…Yet I find you here."

"You would never believe me if I told you," Marguerite said. "It's best _not _to ask. I have no idea where he is now, and anyway, it's over."

"Forgive my forwardness, but you and he seemed quite—taken with each other. If he mistreated you—"

"Please don't," she said. "Don't speak of it."

Henri stood there blinking, quite at a loss for words. When Marguerite offered none of her own, he said, "Mademoiselle, your parents ought to know where _you _are." She wondered if she ought to resent his patronizing tone, but decided he was only trying to be kind.

"No, they really shouldn't," she said. "I can take care of myself, I'm learning."

"You don't need anything?"

_Nothing you can give me_. "No, thank you."

After another self-conscious pause, Henri cleared his throat. "Well I'm very sorry that I must be on my way now, mademoiselle, but it is getting late." He smiled. "I was rather ashamed of the circumstances under which we met. It took me all day to get up the nerve to come see you again. Even then, I had to check in all the businesses on this part of the street, not being sure which one you had been coming from."

Marguerite gave him a timid little grin for that remark. He was still just as sweet as before…if a bit dull. Why on earth would he keep company with men like those he had been with last night? At another tinkling of the bell, she leaned back and peeked around the corner. Henri looked out above her.

"Heaven help us," he muttered dryly.

It seemed as though the Grim Reaper himself had entered the store—a tall figure completely encased in a black hood and cloak. The hood, obscuring any head that might have been inside it, turned slowly, apparently taking in everything before moving behind a shelf across the room. Marguerite shrank back and glanced over at Bontecou, but the men were still deep in conversation, both a bit paler than before.

"I most certainly can't leave now," Henri whispered. "Not with _that_ in here with you."

Marguerite giggled nervously. "Monsieur Bontecou and the other gentleman are sufficient to help me, I think," she said. "You get many different characters in a bookshop like this. Besides…it's just a cloak. What of it? The nights are still cold. But I do thank you for offering, Hen—Monsieur Laroche, and for coming to visit me. You can see for yourself that I'm quite all right." _On the outside, perhaps_…

At the door, she waved goodbye to Henri as he left. Closing the door, she glanced around, looking for Death. What kind of customer was he? She hoped her employer would take the initiative and speak to him. She didn't like the utter confusion waging war with her mind. Any other time, Bontecou would bark at her to stay away from the customers, go to the back of the store and clean things, sort things, make sure everything was in order, but let _him _take care of the clientele. Tonight seemed to be quite an exception. Swallowing back the bile that rose in her throat, she wound her way around the shelves until she saw the figure again, glancing through a book at the end of an aisle. Slowly she approached him, but he seemed to take no notice of her. She bit her lip and stood straighter.

"Are you in need of assistance, monsieur?" she asked politely. She usually tried to give everyone at least half a smile, but the muscles in her face did not seem to want to work that way.

He made not a sound or a movement, except to return the book to its place on the shelf. It was then that Marguerite saw his hands and immediately recognized the natural elegance in those long, pale fingers.

In the first instant, she felt ecstatic relief, and then terror in imagining those hands fastened around her throat, cursing her for leaving, for betrayal. The room around her wavered, and she grabbed a shelf to keep herself upright, gulping in such large, sudden breaths that she made herself dizzy. She staggered backward from the dark, gaping hood, her eyes as wide as though she had already been asphyxiated.

The stranger before her did nothing as she fought back a wave of nausea and tried to control her inhalations. Perhaps it _was _really Death, and he was casting his effect on her that moment. She turned away from him and began to regain control. After a few coughs, she whirled back to face him.

"Erik?" she finally forced herself to rasp. He took a step back. Had she been mistaken?

The body twisted around, looking in all directions before a hand came up and pushed back his hood. The face was, indeed, Erik's face—the mask, the shining green eyes, and his lips separated slightly over gritting teeth. She hunched over a bit, pressing her palms against her forehead, her breathing ragged. "Oh, lord…" she said, turning to lean forward against the shelves.

For the moment, all Erik could do was stare. He had a bit more control, but was no less shocked. He had glimpsed just a bit of her face when he first came into the store, and until she came around the corner, offering to help him, he had been trying to collect himself and convince his confounding imagination that it was _not _Marguerite. But there she was.

"What are you doing here?" he gasped.

Each day apart had felt like a decade. Marguerite took another deep breath and, without looking at him, said, "I-I'm employed here."

As though on cue, Bontecou came around the corner, behind Erik, who tensed and did not turn around when he asked, "Is there anything you need, monsieur?" Marguerite's head snapped up to look at him, but Erik blocked her view.

"No," Erik said, his hands forming fists which he kept firmly against his thighs, his voice terse. "I wish to speak to the lady."

"Mademoiselle," Bontecou said, "this is a shop, not a private parlor. If you insist on inviting every man you know into this place to call on you, I shall have to—"

"I assure you, it will—not—happen—again," Erik said through his tightly clenched teeth. He did not change his position or turn his head, but he shifted his eyes to meet Marguerite's for a moment. She could not divulge what he was thinking. She just naturally assumed he was going to kill her, but she could not run or speak a word.

Bontecou was indignant at being so easily dismissed. "I beg your pardon monsieur, but—"

"_Leave us!_" Erik snapped. Bontecou walked back to his counter, mumbling something about low manners and being undermined in his own establishment. When he was gone, Erik took a few steps forward until he was about a foot away from Marguerite. "You left," he said simply.

"I felt I had—"

"_Why?_" In that one thunderous word, Erik betrayed all his hopelessness, his anger, his desperation and despair that had communed and settled in until he had become almost numb with it all.

Looking down, she said quietly, "I'm so sorry, Erik. I know I told you I wouldn't, but…"

"You left without a single damn word! Why didn't you tell me to my cursed _face?_ Who did you go to instead?"

She looked back up at him, shocked that he would suggest such a thing after all she had said. "No one!" She shook her head. "Never. I'm sorry I didn't say anything—"

"And that boy? Just another customer, I may presume?"

With another deep, trembling breath, she said, "Henri was once…well, we were friends, and Marcel saw him as competition. But I met him last night by accident, as I was leaving here." She tried to keep her voice from breaking. "His companions took me for a…prostitute, and he was rather gallant once he recognized me. Today he came by to see that I was all right."

After hearing her words, Erik wished he had the resolve to walk away and leave her to that boy. Obviously he was a gentleman of some income, and he seemed to care for her. Isn't that what Erik wanted for her in the first place? Yet after long days of believing he would never see her again, he was standing right in front of her. And he couldn't tear himself away. She looked tired and half-starved, but her eyes were alight with something he could not describe.

"Erik, please say something," she murmured.

He swallowed and asked, his tone flat, "Are you happy here?"

"No."

His jaw clenched. "You must have had _some _other reason to leave."

Barely reigning in her emotions, she whispered so Bontecou could not eavesdrop. "Because, Erik, I'm almost completely healed…physically. And I couldn't be under your roof when I didn't have your heart as well. I started feeling desperate, and I had to leave before I'd do something regrettable." She flushed and felt her stomach flip over. "I came to realize I was preparing to…offer myself completely…if it only meant you would love me. I didn't even know if that would work!"

She rubbed the back of her neck, which had become painfully constricted with the embarrassment of her confession. "A weak, irrational thing to do. I couldn't keep myself in that situation. And I was tired of not knowing where I stood with you. So I had to go."

"I did tell you you'd regret your feelings for me," he said.

"If you harbored the same feelings, I wouldn't regret loving you, Erik. But it's not fair to me. I know _life _isn't fair, but this is just one of the things that _must _be." Absent-mindedly she ran her fingers along the spines of the books, tracing the titles and gently plucking at the corners. Erik never thought he could be jealous of a novel. "If you loved me even the smallest bit…just as long as I had some portion of your heart…but I don't, do I? And if I did…how was I to know?"

Erik stared down at her for a moment. She had no idea. How could she? Why couldn't he have ever told her, and why not simply come out with it now?

Not _now_, not in a store with her employer and another customer doubtless straining to hear every word of their exchange. He pulled the hood up over his head again and took her arm at the elbow. "It's time to go," he said, moving toward the exit and pulling her along with him.

"What are you doing?" She dug in her heels, but he was so strong it made no difference. They hurried out the door just as Bontecou looked up from his ledger.

"What is the meaning—" But the closing door cut him off.

Marguerite wrapped her arm around a lamppost as they hurried past, just managing to get Erik to stop walking. He turned his burning gaze upon her questioningly.

"This is madness, Erik," she said, calling forth her feelings of resentment if only to overcome her fear. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on!"

He let go of her arm—something she had not really wanted him to do—and took a step closer. "You don't belong here." Oh, that pain on her face! How was he supposed to think saying that would hurt her?

"Oh, _thank you_. I don't belong _anywhere_, it seems."

"Why didn't you go home?"

"What do you care where I went?" she asked vehemently. "I thought you'd be glad to have your place all to yourself again! But since you asked, I went to my parents house and was informed by the _maid _that I was no longer welcome inside. I've been disowned, Erik, because of what they think I did with Marcel."

Erik's face went slack. "The letter—"

"I'm completely on my own. I have no money, otherwise I would try to go back to Saint Marie, where we lived before. I have no friends now that false gossip has spread through the higher circles. I was living under _my father's_ opera house with someone who would never tell me if he actually wanted me there! So, Erik, what _is_ there for me but working enough to get by in a shabby little flat a few blocks away?"

Erik was stunned at both the content of her words and the manner in which she spoke them. Her meekness during their last moments together in his home, and her fear at seeing him back in the store, had dissolved into this righteous anger that flashed in her eyes and shook in her voice. She left him quite speechless, actually, and terribly guilt-ridden. He had been awful, and she was better off without him.

"I'm sure that Henri boy would be only too happy—"

"He's a fine man, Erik, but not what I want." She laughed insincerely. "And his friends! The very replications of Marcel. Oh, they…they were very convincing gentlemen. I nearly gave myself up after realizing they had blue blood and full coffers to spend on a whore like me."

Erik reached out and grasped her chin with one hand. "_Do not _say that, Marguerite. I won't have it!" His grip softened and he stroked her cheek. Her eyes closed, but when she realized what was happening, they snapped open again and she took his hand from her face.

"But Erik, what does this _mean_ to you?"

He licked his lips, preparing to answer. "It isn't the same," he said. "I play music, then I remember there's no one just down the hall to hear it, and I can't continue." He attempted a meager smile. "And my desk is messy again."

"Well, sir," she said, "if you _do _need a cleaning woman, don't hesitate to find me. I'll be looking for employment since you might've just lost me my job."

She walked past him a short distance before stopping again. "You didn't really answer my question. I don't matter that much to you, do I? A maid? An audience? You can pick up someone for that _anywhere_." She sighed. "If you were willing to give of your heart, Erik, it would be different. I already gave you mine. What have you done with it?"

She turned and hurried away, back toward her flat. It took every last scrap of resistance and self-control—much of which she didn't even know she had—to keep from hurling herself at Erik and begging him not to leave her behind. But she couldn't…not unless he said outright that he loved her and wanted her with him.

At the first corner she came to, she stopped and turned around.

He had disappeared into the shadows.

**A/N: Please don't kill me! I promise this is going somewhere! I finally sat down and scribbled out a random outline of how the rest of the story's going to go...there are some twists to come, and it's not going to be over for a while! If you review (and you better!) I do so hope you make a comment on the story itself and what just happened in this chapter besides the fact that I've left you hanging yet again! --smile--**


	30. All I Ask Of You

**A/N: OK OK OK here you go! —**sigh—** I'm sorry about the second terrible cliffhanger in a row. Hopefully this will make up for it. There are a few Kay references in here, but if you haven't read it, no big deal. But you should read it!**

**Right away, I'm going to confess that I'm so very nervous and insecure about posting this chapter. It took me forever to edit itto the point that I'm happy enough to post it (I'm a bit obsessive-compulsive when it comes to my writing!) but I still feel...gah!**

**fighting-4-freedom: **—gasp— Oh dear me the Gerry Butler happy dance is too tempting. (psst! Jay Leno tomorrow night!—wink—)

**sarah: **Oh, you so called it! Keep reading…

**Kristi le Fantome: **Thanks much for a lengthy review! I'm sorry you think she's weak, though.

**ktswaz: **Not to worry, you don't need to beg much more.

**artgem04: **Hehe yay, another happy dance! Just think of it…tomorrow night…oh, do I hear squeeing? —squee!— I have a feeling we'll be seeing Gerry doing his own happy dance. Don't forget to give me 10 minutes after the show to get back online!

**Nade-Naberrie: **—swoons— What more could I possibly ask for in a review? I would send Erik over to your house to hug you if I could. I'd hug you too, but I'm sure you'd much prefer it coming from Erik. Just make sure you have that fan on! His touch is cold as death, yes, but the man is mighty hot. Oh, and btw, because of that last review,you have been promoted from Most Enthusiastic Reviewer to Official Phanphic Authoress Bodyguard. Not for authoresses in general, though, just me. That's a title I alone bestow (as far as I know). I hope you approve. I don't know who will be M.E.R. now, though.

**surf with music: **I'm sorry the last cliffhanger made you so angry! —cries, grovels—

**ModestySparrow9: **I love that you tell me what parts you like. That one line w/ Henri I added late, but it did seem to work! I can't wait for your next update, btw.

**sbkar: **I can't believe you took the time to review each chapter as you went! THANK YOU! —bows— Your comments were excellent, I must say. Imagine my surprise when I looked at my Inbox the next morning!

**barefootadvocat: **Glad you like the forthrightness, because there will be more very soon…very very soon…starting now, actually…

**Things will swing in a whole new direction, but it's far, far from over.**

Disclaimer: I don't own it, never will…

It seemed someone else was not happy with Marguerite's actions.

The rain began before she was halfway home, and she realized she had left her cloak at the store. She cursed the weather, herself, and Erik as she picked up the pace, shivering. _I only hope the better weather of spring comes soon_, she thought irrelevantly, letting herself into the building and climbing the rickety stairs to her room, her despair increasing with every step. Beatrice meowed, jumping off the bed and circling around her ankles as Marguerite lit her candle.

"Hello, my sweet girl," Marguerite said, foregoing the slight sing-song voice she usually used in addressing the cat. Instead, the words came out broken, on the verge of brutal tears. She had to gently nudge Beatrice aside to remove her shoes and stockings, a very difficult thing to do since she was trembling so badly, fighting to keep herself in check. She hung her dress over the back of the chair.

She had never expected to meet Erik so publicly, even if it was late in the evening, and at a tiny bookstore close to the opera house. What hadhe been doing there, anyway? Naturally, she assumed he left the opera house on occasion, but what in heaven's name could have driven him to that little shop?

She took the threadbare towel from the little table on the far side of the room to wipe her face, damp with rain and tears. Pausing with the cloth to her eyes, she choked on her sobs until she sank to her knees.

For a second, a flash of lightning brilliantly illuminated the room. She counted three seconds until she heard the deafening lion's roar of thunder. Beatrice, normally rather fearless, streaked under the bed. Marguerite did not even try to get her out before slipping between the sheets to listen to rain drumming on the roof. Thunder rolled by, lighting blazed, and Marguerite curled up on her side, hating herself and wishing she were not so very alone. Usually she enjoyed listening to the rain, but tonight the more intolerable pounding seemed to be inside her own head.

She felt two tiny pressure points on her shoulder, and rolled over to cuddle Beatrice close. Something else caught her eye—something tall and dark and shrouded—and she sat up instantly. If it were not for the thunder that screamed at the same instant she did, she would have awoken the other boarders in the house as well. The storm might have already done so.

"Erik?"

The large shadow sat on the bed beside her. "You forgot this," he said, spreading her cloak on the bed like an extra blanket. She stared at him, openmouthed. He'd come after her?

"Why so silent, mademoiselle? Did you think that I had left you for good?"

Marguerite gulped back her tears and her words.

"Have you missed me, mademoiselle?"

"Yes," she whispered, her throat aching. There was some kind of satisfaction on his face upon hearing that one word. She was emanating tension, fear, shame, and wanting. He was feeding off of it, she knew, and she didn't care. She chewed her bottom lip as he glanced around the room, lighting giving him a quarter-second to see the place better than a single candle.

"How are the mighty fallen," he said.

He stopped speaking and looked down at Beatrice. When he scratched her behind the ears, she instantly began to purr, which Marguerite felt through the blanket. She looked at Erik in the darkness, wishing he would touch her with such tender friendliness.

"I've always had a way with animals," he said.

"I see that," she said, smiling, hoping this was an opportunity to ease the stress weighing down the entire room. She leaned back against the wall, for the bed had no headboard, and pulled the covers up a little closer. "Erik—" He placed a finger to her lips, his eyes practically sparkling with the light of the one candle as he shifted a little closer.

Although he wished for whatever strength of mind it would take to speak the words he knew she had to hear, he couldn't. Nothing that seemed to fit materialized in his head. Instead, he leaned down and kissed her. Marguerite let out the slightest peep of surprise, their lips tentatively brushing for a second before she allowed his mouth to ravage hers. Erik cupped the back of her head with one hand and brought the other around her waist, pulling her closer.

Marguerite shut her eyes, hardly capable of breath and unwilling to stop to take one. When she felt his tongue graze hers, she slid her arms around his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin and the coolness of his mask. In that moment, their breaths combined and their lips moving hungrily across each others', she had everything she ever wanted. He was about to move away, but she pressed herself against him and took his mouth again. She felt his lips curve into a smile he could not suppress, and she broke off the kiss, lifting her eyes to lock with his.

She had so much to say, most of it forgotten at the moment.

"Does this mean you've changed your mind?" he asked.

"I thought you would kill me for leaving."

Brief anger flashed in his eyes. "You think me just that low?"

"I couldn't possibly." She reached up to his face, and he jerked back when her fingers lightly brushed his mask, but she did not try to take it. "But I still hold to what I said before, Erik. I'm sorry…As much as I want to, I just can't go back with you."

The light in his eyes was quickly extinguished and replaced by suspicion. "Pray tell, enlighten me."

"Well…I told you why I left—all the reasons—all the confusion in me. It hasn't gone away."

He turned around in his seat, facing the door with his back to her, swearing very quietly. Why was she playing with him this way? What did she want from him? Had he followed her only to make himself into a fool? Perhaps he had been wrong about her. Perhaps this woman _would _tear his heart out as Christine had done. He should have just gone back to the opera house without following her. He should have never left that evening. He shouldn't have brought her back to his home in the first place. He should have left her with Marcel.

He shuddered, nauseated at the thought. Never.

So it was inevitable…

"I'm being too vague," Marguerite was saying. "Erik, I can't live with you—not the way it would be. I can't live with a man I'm not—who isn't my husband."

He laughed harshly at her morality. If it wasn't for him, she would have been ravaged and beaten and left to die by the lake, possibly never found until the flesh barely clung to her skeletal remains. Had she forgotten it was he who had _saved _her virtue? He could kill the man who was willing to steal it from her, but she couldn't give it freely? She could lie to her parents and make them think she had, but the instant there might be some truth to her story, she balked? Was she really all that honest? It reminded Erik of his time with the gypsies—by all means, steal and swindle and murder, yes, and keep a man in a cage—but chastity before marriage must be protected at all times. He turned to look back at her icily.

Oh, horror! She died as she watched his face turn back to her, strained but unmoving, cold and silent as the mask he wore. Grief and uncertainty welled up within her, and near-panic. Mentally she begged him to speak, wondering if she ought to say something else. The muscles in his neck were working, and she wondered if he were trying to swallow, trying to speak, or trying to keep the contents of his stomach from asserting themselves.

Finally he said, "In case you haven't noticed, my dear, I don't put much consideration into the laws of man."

"Erik, I'm talking about my own conscience, and God's laws. I've been so awful…I've been such a sneak and a liar until now that I have to do _something _right. Please try to understand…"

"Although I hate to put your pretty conscious at unease, since you already had to soil it a bit under my orders long ago," he said with an unfeeling smile, "I must remind you I haven't been on very good terms with the Creator since He bestowed such bounteous glory upon my birth." He tapped his mask as though Marguerite had not already known what he was speaking about.

She furrowed her brow, thinking. "Perhaps God gave you your extraordinary gifts to _make up_ for your…physical shortcomings? And even then you really do lack very little."

Erik frowned deeply, deliberately overlooking the unabashed compliment. "For what purpose? My _talents_ have given me almost as much grief as my loathsome face! You know nothing of what I've had to live through."

"Because you've never told me! I _don't_ know much of you, Erik, apart from what I've seen for myself. I don't know of your past. I'd heard of you before, of course, but I lived rather far away before coming to Paris. All I know are the barest details of how you kidnapped Christine, and sabotaged the _Opera Populaire_ as well as La Carlotta's career. Other than that, I don't know what you're said to have done, or what was done _to _you." Murder was something else, but she didn't dare mention it.

She swallowed. "I would put my trust in you, Erik, to be honest with me. If you tell me you've done nothing as terrible as the stories render them, I will believe you. If you _have _done things—whatever they may be—whatever you wish to reveal to me—I will listen. Of course, I hope someday you will open up enough to tell me _something_. I love you, and…I want to know."

Erik just sat indolently, looking mildly amused at her earnest appeal. Exasperated, she groaned and plumped her pillow before stretching out her limbs beneath the blanket. She was about to turn over with her back to Erik before realizing there was an issue that had yet to be settled. She sat back up, pushing her hair away from her face.

"You've still given me no answer," she said.

"Regarding what? I'd gotten quite lost in your lovely, heartfelt speech."

"Blast it, Erik, you don't forget anything! I was talking about why I can't go back with you."

"Because you want a storybook wedding to a dapper, handsome groom, a white horse to ride into the sunset, and a fairytale ending with happily ever after and eternal bliss? Do you think bells will toll and the angels of Heaven will sing if you join your life with an angel of darkness? I daresay your fairy godmother will give you away at the wedding, and she'll wave her magic wand and make it all better." Marguerite looked positively livid, and he dropped his careless tone. "If that's what you want, then you could just pretend that—"

"_No!_" she shouted. She sighed wearily and continued in a much softer voice, "That's not what I want at all."

"Quite the unusual female, then," he said.

"No more make-believe, Erik. You either love me, or you don't." She forced herself to make eye contact with him. "If you do, you would try to understand, and…I don't want a fairytale life. That's not real. I just want _you_. Erik, I would marry you if you wanted me. I've never thought that about anyone else."

She flopped back onto her pillow, her arms stretched down either side of her, as if she were being weighed down and was accepting a dismal fate. Erik watched her, his eyebrows knitting together, as much as was possible while wearing his mask.

"I want it to be _binding_," she said solemnly. "I want no uncertainty."

The silent moments that followed, but for the rain and the thunder that was gradually ebbing away, stretched on for an eternity.

Marguerite turned slightly away from him, a few tears making silent tracks on her skin. He looked over her face, the pointed nose sharpening otherwise soft features, the now-light scratches on her neck, almost invisible in the low light and framed by ebony hair, and the improbably sensual mouth. Timid and blushing one minute, bright and stubborn the next. Did he really want to share the rest of his wretched life with her?

The days without her had already told him the answer.

"I'll find out what must be done," he said, tentatively brushing her fingers to see if she would move away. When she didn't, his hand closed around hers.

She thought for sure her heart was going to burst out of her chest. Gripping his hand right back, she said, "Erik, are you sure?"

His mouth did not so much as twitch, but his eyes were warm. "I'm not letting you get away again."

She laughed out loud. It was a sound she hadn't heard from herself in the longest time. "And Beatrice can stay?"

He looked down at the little tabby curled up by his feet. "I'm afraid I'm keeping her whether you decide to stay or not."

"How long will it take, Erik? I don't have the money to pay for a few more days of being here, but I could go back to Monsieur Bontecou and—"

"You're leaving tomorrow."

"And where will I go? I won't stay with you until…until we can be married." She had a difficult time believing she could actually say that. "When I was—injured—and recuperating, that was different, but now…" She shook her head.

"No wonder you could never fit in with the high and mighty. You have that same set of morals which is such a burden for the middle class." She frowned at him, understanding and not liking it. "The wealthy can _usually_ get away with such things, and the poor no one cares about. The middle class is the one stuck with morality, isn't it? You needn't worry—I know of a place you can stay. I will make the arrangements tonight, and return for you in the morning. Early." He stood to leave, and when he went to the door, her soft voice followed him.

"You'd better make damn sure you come back," she said, a hint of teasing in her tone.

Erik returned to her side, looking put out. He bent down and kissed her below the ear and whispered huskily, "How can I disobey such charming orders?" before rising to his full height again. Beatrice was about to follow him out, and he had to pick her up and put her back into Marguerite's arms before leaving.

**A/N again: I must be reassured that I'm not screwing this up! I DO appreciate every review, whether it says "I like it, update soon" or if it's long enough to fill a literature textbook (**—cough— **You know who you are…But I'm not complaining!). Each review is equally loved and special! Erm…all right then. Hey! Could this chapter bump me up to 300? Just wondering…**


	31. The Phantom's Note

**A/N: I wrote a chapter, then another, and realized how many I already posted. So I combined them into 1 very long chapter. Besides telling me what you think of the content, what about the length? Should I go back to shorter chapters, or keep 'em like this? Of course, a part of the length is because of the review replies...I won't be able to respond to all of them at once anymore after today.  
****Replies to all reviews today, because I feel like spreading the love!**

**Elle Knight: **Three cheers for you! What prize is appropriate for writing my 300th review? I'm going to need some more time to think about that. Perhaps a fruit basket?

**Sarah: **I can honestly say to you, the wedding, as it were, is not going to be the end of the story.

**Surf with music: **Anger forgiven! Yes, the part with the gypsies is from Kay, and almost any reference to Erik's past. DO read it, but also _Hitchhiker's Guide_! That's one of my favorites!

**Avateine: **Well, it's one of my favorite chapters, too! Hehe…I was afraid the thunder part was going to be cheesy! Thanks for liking it.

**Opal Gimstone: **Wellll, no flower girl position, I'm sorry, though they do thank you very much for your enthusiasm. So do I, actually. If I was in a chair like that, I'd be spinning around, too!

**Fighting-4-freedom: **Ah, Gerry, the most deliciously beautiful manly man in the world. I need to be takin' a trip to Scotland sometime soon, aye? Or we could just arrest him for being so deadly sexy and toss him in jail. I'll be head warden for free if I get certain benefits…

**Valandah: **Thanks for the extra reviews and recommending my story! It's nice to write Erik a little warmer, but I'm just always afraid of making him OOC. (Oh, and FYI, Bontecou is the bookstore owner, and Henri is the Raoul-like boy.)

**An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin: **I still adore your penname. Anyway, yes, I hear wedding bells. I'm glad you like the kiss! About time, right? —melts—

**Cap'n of the Deep: **Thank you, I do like knowing my characters. It kind of makes it easier to write because you're more aware of how they would behave in whatever situations you put them in. Wow, could I be more pretentious?

**Smgirl: **I have rendered you speechless! I'm muy happy that you like the story. I'm so excited!

**Emma-J-Riddle: **Here's your update! Thanks for letting me know it's not getting screwed up.

**A Piece of My Heart:** You're back! Huzzah! Allow me to quote your review: "It seems as if Erik is finally coming to realize that what he thought he wanted in Christine was not reality." I couldn't have said it better myself. And no, no more fairy tale dreams for Marguerite.

**Artgem04: **Oh, dear, what do I say to you that I haven't already said? "SQUEEEE!" No, wait, we've covered that. "GLOMP!" Hmm, yeah, that too…

**Deanna: **Those are pretty much the only E/OC stories I go for, too! I felt so sad at reading "poor tortured soul" but, you know…that's Erik for you.

**ModestySparrow9:** I'm glad Beatrice turned out to be rather important, and very popular!

**Ktswaz: **Oh, dear, don't even get me started on PONR, my favorite _Phantom _song! It completely perplexed and disturbed me when I first saw the musical at age 11. But it's beautiful! There is a mind-in-the-gutter thing to it—and to the utter devastating beauty that is Gerry Butler. He's not my ideal Phantom, but just Gerry as himself…mm! Grrr…ok I'm done now. Kilt, anyone?

**Nade-Naberrie:** LOL! I'm glad you approve of the new title. I wasn't sure how to write Erik's emotions. The phrase "happy Erik" just doesn't sound right, so he might be so stunned by her consenting to marry him, he would just hold it in…or maybe you do like sap a little too much!

**LenisVox:** I really liked that line! I doubt I could restrain myself as much as Marguerite, though!

Disclaimer: Don't own it. CURSE YOU!

Perhaps it was no coincidence that when the _Opera Populaire_'s ballet mistress, Danielle Luvier, received Erik's note, she was having breakfast with her friend and associate, Madame Antoinette Giry.

When Gautier took over the _Opera Populaire_, the previous managers had suggested adding new blood to the personnel. Madame Giry was one of those dismissed, more for her close connection with that ridiculous Phantom of the Opera business years ago than for her lack of contribution to the establishment. Madame Luvier was hired instead, having just lost her job at a smaller opera house across the city in a nasty case of office politics. However, she had been close friends with Giry for years, and believed her to be the superior instructor. Luvier often took a little extra money from the opera's extensive dance budget to pay Giry for helping oversee rehearsals and give advice, all unbeknownst to Gautier.

Giry's eyes widened at the sight of the familiar black-trimmed stationery and bright red seal. She thought he was dead; they all thought so. How very like Erik to arrange it so convincingly. This letter could not possibly be some marvelous prank. What did he have in mind this time? She watched Luvier opened the envelope, frown, and read the letter. Her expression was incredulous.

"Of all the impertinent orders! What is the meaning of this?"

"Whatever is it, Danielle?" Giry asked in her calmest voice. Luvier thrust the letter at her, and she took it. Thehandwriting was unmistakable, the imperious sarcasm even more so.

_Dearest Mme Luvier, Most Esteemed Ballet Mistress of the_ Opera Populaire

_This afternoon, I am sending a Mlle Marguerite to you with the request that you allow her the use of the dormitories and facilities for as long as she has need. She is to be installed in the room at the back of the third floor on the building's western side, where she will remain undisturbed. You are not to inquire into her affairs or activities, or ask for further personal details. She will leave in a few days, and you will forget she had ever been there. _

_I wish to repress the gossip among the ballerinas—alas, experience has taught me that is quite impossible. However, I do expect you will not share this letter's contents with anyone. _

_I advise you to comply; my instructions should be clear. If not, your employment with the Opera Populaire will be either very brief or very unpleasant—the choice is yours._

_Regards,_

_O.G._

"Well then," Giry said, "you certainly are off to a good start in obeying him. You oughtn't have showed me this letter." Truthfully, she was very glad Luvier had.

"That's all you've got to say? What do you think it means?"

Putting the letter down, Giry said, "I suppose it means you better do as he requests."

"Requests?" She snorted. "_Commands_, you mean! Who is this character anyway, and how does he—or she, for that matter—_dare_ to order me about?" Luvier stood and said, "I'm going to see Monsieur Gautier about this."

"I highly doubt the wisdom in such actions, Danielle," Giry said mildly, her eyebrows raising ever so slightly. "I think there is more harm in refusing."

Luvier's face went blank for only a moment before her eyes widened and she slowly sucked in her breath, realizing what was happening. "Is this…is it _he?_ Antoinette, is it the Opera Ghost? The one you told me about?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Antoinette, what am I to do?"

"You're going to have to abide by his commands—and not breathe a word to Gautier."

"Even so, I can't just let some strange woman stay in a room of the dormitories and allow her free reign when I know nothing about her and with no compensation!"

"Do you know which room this letter refers to?"

"Yes."

"Is there anyone staying in it now?"

Luvier sighed. "No."

"Danielle, I must apologize for appearing to overstep my bounds, but since I was once employed in the very position you now occupy, and was an employee, so to speak, of this 'Opera Ghost,' I feel that my opinion in this matter really should count for something. If you are truly worried, I can be the one to meet her when she arrives and to see that she is comfortable."

She would have to keep a tight reign on herself to keep from grilling this Marguerite about Erik and how she came to know him.

* * *

"You can't be serious!" Marguerite gasped. Erik had arrived at her flat in the very early morning and told her of his plan. "The ballet dormitories? Do you want me to be found out for sure?" 

"The letter, if not already, ought to be read quite soon. I gave specific instructions you were to be left alone. And I will take great care you will not be seen by those whom you fear."

Marguerite sighed in coarse frustration and walked away from him. "I'm not so experienced at hiding as you are. And what am I supposed to do while I'm there? Just sit around a little room all day until you have all the 'arrangements' in order?"

"Of course not," he said, as though she had just asked him the most idiotic question imaginable. He couldn't hide his wry smirk. "I'll make sure you aren't…disinterested. Why, there's an opera being performed this very evening. I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss it."

"I can't go to an opera!"

Erik's tone was longsuffering, and just barely patient. "Certainly not in the audience, my dear. How do you think _I've _been seeing them all these years? You'll have the best seat in the house."

Marguerite could not help but smile at the thought of sitting someplace hidden above the stage, and watching the performance below with the Phantom of the Opera. He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She turned around and leaned into him, heat rushing through her when his arms enclosed her.

"All right, Erik, I trust you. You can't blame me for being a _bit _nervous though."

"Naturally. And it's only for a few days."

_A few days_. In a few days, she was going to be a married woman. She never thought it would happen, and certainly not like this. Her mind wandered forward in time, and something nagged at her. Life with Erik was going to be challenging, certainly, but she knew she was up to it. _Where _life was going to be with Erik was somewhat questionable. Of _course _he would let her leave the house, wouldn't he?

"As delightful as it is to stand here this way," Erik's voice broke through her thoughts, "we really ought to be going."

As he opened the door to the hallway, Marguerite put on her cloak and picked up her cat. Although she refused to think of Beatrice as luggage, she was all there was to carry. "I hope my little darling can do without me for a few days. Erik, you don't really mind keeping her?"

"I've already said I will take good care of her. She would not be the first of her kind to grace the presence of my domain."

"I'm so glad," Marguerite said, smiling. "I couldn't do without her, you know." To Beatrice herself, she whispered, "It's all right, just be still. We'll be there before you know it."

Erik kept them to back alleys and more roundabout paths, even though he was completely enclosed in his cloak and cowl and could not possibly be recognized. Few people around would have recognized Marguerite, either, but Erik was not taking any chances. Eventually they reached Rue Scribe and then the tunnel-like passage to his lair. Marguerite gently shifted Beatrice to one arm, wrapping her other around Erik's, her pulse racing. This was the first time she was returning to the underground house since she attempted to run away from everything.

Despite her earlier trepidation, when she stepped through the mirror frame and saw the dark water, the organ, the messy desk, and the corridor leading to the back rooms—she felt that she was finally home. Beatrice squirmed worse than ever, and Marguerite had to put her down. She sniffed around a little bit, and then quickly disappeared down the hallway.

"I imagine she'll be competing with the rat-catcher before too long," Erik remarked. He looked at the cat's vanishing form with such sad fondness that Marguerite was a little jealous. Of her own cat! The feeling quickly vanished when Erik looked at her, all seriousness and concern. "Marguerite…I couldn't possibly ask you to live here."

She thought her heart would break at the look in his eyes. She was seeing a new side of Erik, and it worried her almost as much as the anger that constantly simmered in his blood. She took one of his hands, tracing the lines in his palm with her fingers.

"You're here, Erik. That's home enough for me."

He was about to tell her of plans forming in his mind to find a house outside the city, but was interrupted. She pulled forth a melody from a far corner of her mind, one she had tried to learn before, and sang, low and softly.

"_Lead me, save me from my solitude_. _Say you want me with you here, beside you_. _Anywhere you go, let me go, too_. _Love me, that's all I ask of you_."

Erik drew a ragged breath when she looked up at him, her small smile completely innocent. She had no idea what that song meant to him, or what it meant for her to be singing it now. He pulled her close and kissed her like the starved man he was. He felt in her reaction that his sudden passion shocked her, but he could not draw back. His hands came up to hold either side of her face, and she grasped his wrists without attempting to move them.

When he finally pulled away, he said huskily, "I should have gone to look for you the instant I knew you left."

"It's all right," she said, breathless, her wide eyes still anxious. "I'm here now." She stopped herself and smiled bashfully again. She gently turned his head and kissed him chastely on the cheek.

He closed his eyes. "My own mother would not kiss me," he said.

"Never?"

"Not even on my birthday. Not even when I asked her."

Marguerite's mouth opened a little, absolutely appalled. Her heart was about to crumble from what he had just revealed to her. How much worse for him, who actually lived it and carried the memory? She leaned against his chest, her hands at his waist.

"_I_ will kiss you, Erik," she said, tears blurring her sight, "as much as you want, whenever you ask. And I swear I won't leave you like that again."

When she considered how drastically things could change in the course of one's existence, she was amazed. For her, she thought it started with the night of the masquerade, but that wasn't true. It had started with Erik. Good and bad, it all started with him. She shuddered to think what her life might have been like had she never met him in the dark corridor that one day, almost a year ago. She would have never gotten involved in his blackmail, never known of the house beyond the underground lake, and never experienced so many sleepless nights.

Neither would she have learned how a person can be loved for all aspects of their personality, and sometimes in spite of them. She would not have learned to love so very deeply, or seen what a lack of it could do to a man. If it weren't for Erik, by now she would have been still in contact with her family and friends, still wealthy—and probably married by now. And when she considered who might have shared her marriage bed, a frigid hand of terror gripped her heart. She had suffered at his hand, but if she had never met Erik, she might have married Marcel…and learned of his brutality too late to save herself.

She glanced behind her, half expecting to see his ghost hovering above the lake.

* * *

"I'll take care of this business with Mademoiselle Marguerite," Giry said. "You have your dancers to attend to. The ballet in Act Two needs more work, and that English girl needs a careful eye in particular." 

"He never specified a time," Luvier said, wringing her hands. "He just said 'afternoon.'"

"Don't worry, Danielle. I'll wait."

"No, I ought to. Suppose she tells O.G. that I wasn't the one there to meet her and show her to her room? You'd best direct the rehearsal. I'll be there as soon as I've got her settled in."

"If you insist," Giry said with a mild sigh, pursing her lips and heading back to the dance rehearsal room, leaving Danielle Luvier to fidget and nervously circle the dormitory entryway. The ballet mistress had to wait only twenty minutes before Marguerite entered the building, alone and carrying no baggage. She smiled brightly at Luvier.

Though the girl appeared friendly, Luvier could only tentatively curve her lips upward. How was this young woman connected with the Opera Ghost? She looked nothing like Christine Daae, at least as Luvier remembered the soprano. Christine's slender beauty was ethereal and delicate. This Marguerite had a solid black mane, and though it was set in a simple braid, Luvier could tell it did not curl as Christine's had. Her rusty brown dress was several years out of style and obviously tailored for someone with different measurements. There was a pinched look to her structurally rounded face, as though she had not been eating properly. Her gray eyes, however, were quite striking.

"You are Mademoiselle Marguerite?"

"Yes, madam. You may dispense with the 'mademoiselle,' if you wish."

"So be it. This way, please."

"I'm glad no one was already rooming there, madame," Marguerite said. "It would be unforgivable for me to be the cause of someone else being turned out of her room."

"Yes, well," Madame Luvier said with a clearing of her throat. "Quite lucky the room was empty. The letter's author had very specific instructions. I'm afraid you'll be rather secluded."

A little thrill passed between Marguerite's shoulders and down through her stomach before she reminded herself why she was staying in the dormitories at all. She smiled at a little redheaded girl, no older than eight, peeking out of her door. Others living there were even younger, and a few as old as Marguerite. She felt envious of them. If only she'd had some kind of artistic training, besides a painting tutor. Then she might feel more useful to the world.

Upon entering the room, they were met by a slim, severe-looking woman in a dark blue dress. Her gray-blonde hair was tightly bound in a high bun like the ballerinas' and her olive eyes were sharp and hardly left Marguerite's. The lines in her face masked what must have been once attractive features.

"Antoinette!" Luvier gasped. "I had no idea you'd be here. My stars, you gave me a fright!"

"I'm sorry to startle you, but the rehearsal is going well on its own, and as I was present when you received the letter, I thought I should be here to see that the orders were executed as requested." Her voice was femininely low and even, her words disguising some hidden meaning Marguerite did not understand.

"Marguerite," Luvier said crisply, "may I introduce my friend, Madame Giry? Antoinette…Marguerite. Well then, I'll just go finish off the rehearsal, shall I? You can see the orders were followed to the letter."

"I hope, mademoiselle," Giry said, "you would permit me a moment to speak with you?"

"Antoinette—"

"Madame," Marguerite spoke up, "I would not mind at all, as long as it will not be too long. I'd quite enjoy a rest."

"Of course."

"You can be so _very _odd at times, Antoinette," Luvier said as she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Since it was Madame Giry who wished to speak, Marguerite waited for her to do so. She went to the window and opened it to let in some of the breeze that carried the finally-fulfilled vow of spring's return.

"Mademoiselle Marguerite," Giry said, moving to join her at the window, "I would like to be frank with you."

"Then simply address me as Marguerite."

"Of course. Marguerite…I know who ordered this room for you."

Blanching, Marguerite managed to keep her voice steady. "Do you?"

"Yes. And my question is…do _you?_"

Marguerite let her smile slowly grow, her lips stretching over the teeth without actually showing them. "Madame, if you speak of Erik…I do indeed know him."

"I hope you are sure. Erik…the Opera Ghost, the Phantom…I do hope you know him."

The earnestness on Giry's face erased the smile from Marguerite's. "Why do you ask me?"

"Because I was here at the _Opera Populaire _when everything happened six years ago, when Christine Daae broke from under his spell. I was here before then, as well, his messenger of sorts. I was a witness from the shadows when he took her under his wing, pretending to be her Angel of Music." She took a breath to go on about his murders and blackmail, but Marguerite cut her off with a sharp sigh.

"I know all about Christine. She loves her husband. I've met the woman, and she told me so herself. She wants to forget all about Erik, forget that he ever 'haunted' her."

"And you know how much _he _was in love with her?"

Marguerite pursed her lips and looked away, out the window to the streets below. A young girl was selling flowers, her face streaked with dirt and her dress tattered, but her smile was enormous and pure. A boy a few years younger was shouting the news at a corner, waving a newspaper.

"I'm only telling you this," Giry said, "because I don't want to see him let another young singer suffer the way Christine did. I would wager he loves her still."

"He loves me, madame," Marguerite said, walking across the room, her arms folded. "I will admit, perhaps not as much as he loved Christine Daae, but he _does _love me." She chuckled. "Why, I don't know. I'm no great singer. But I love him as well, and I'd do anything for him."

Giry rubbed her forehead, her mind aching with what she felt she had to say. Erik was in the _Opera Populaire _still, and had managed to snare another young woman. How much did this Marguerite really know of him? And if she was not a singer, what else would Erik want her for? She hated to think of doing it, but Giry felt compelled to warn Marguerite, to spare her any amount of the cruelties Erik was perfectly capable of dishing out, whether they were intentional or not.

"And does he find you pleasing, Marguerite?"

The younger woman took another step back, her mouth opening slightly. "Madame, please do not suggest anything! Do not think it of me! Or Erik. He…he's arranging for us to be married."

Giry came close enough to place her hand on Marguerite's arm. "My dear, I mean to protect you. I've seen what destruction he has wreaked upon this opera house, and I don't wish to see the same thing occur in a young woman's heart such as yours. You seem to have your wits about you. I merely suggest you put them to good use when it comes to Erik. He is older than you imagine him, and he's lived in Hell itself. A man of his loneliness and mad cunning is able to say and do just about anything to get what he wants."

"Madame, please…You must be mistaken. Perhaps that was the Erik _you _knew, but…it's not the same man. Why would he agree to marry me if…?"

"Do not think he may not have some ulterior motive. He usually does."

With an indignant cry, Marguerite yanked her from Giry's gentle touch. Doubt chewed a hole in her brain and settled in to make itself at home. Hang this inquisitive woman! She brought up questions Marguerite had never imagined. Countless times she had affirmed her love to Erik, and when he asked her why, she told him. She knew he loved her as well—maybe without saying it specifically. But…why _would _he? For the love of heaven, why hadn't she asked him before? She never thought it important until now, under the scrutiny of this Madame Giry, who supposedly knew Erik long before Marguerite. But her heart had been ripped to shreds when she left him, and too stubborn to go back, it got worse. Didn't that mean they were meant to be together?

Giry seemed to be reading her thoughts. "If you are to bind your—life—to a man such as Erik, you ought to find out the answers to your questions. But you mustn't be too hard on him," she added. Marguerite looked at her crossly, and Giry offered a consoling smile. "He's known little of love. He may very well appreciate yours, and I sincerely hope he does. But you must look out for yourself as well." She bowed her head. "Good afternoon, mademoiselle."

She left Marguerite alone, staring at the black, empty fireplace, her mind a whirling tempest of incoherent, befuddled thoughts. There was no way at all she was going to rest now. She sat on the bed and wondered what to do, wrapped up in very morose thoughts. A piercing giggle broke into them.

_Maybe this wasn't such a good idea,_ she thought. _I'll never get any peace here_.

Suddenly, her door opened to let in two girls of about seventeen. They stopped laughing and gasped in surprise to see another person in there. One girl, a blonde, dashed away as soon as she saw Marguerite, but the other one, a light brunette, blinked her hazel eyes a moment before leaning out the doorway and calling, "Celine! Celine, get back here!" Her French was muddled by a thick English accent.

She sighed and shook her head, turning back to Marguerite. "I'm so sorry! We didn't know anyone was using this room. Promise you won't tell Madame Luvier?"

Marguerite could only shake her head, stunned.

"Are you in the chorus?" the girl asked. "I don't remember seeing you here before."

"No. I'm not…I'm not a performer." Marguerite's eyebrows lifted. "You mustn't tell anyone _I'm_ here, though."

"Oh…of course not. What is your name?"

"Marguerite."

"I'm Katie. I'm English, but I'm sure you already noticed that! I'm a dancer, and we're supposed to be at practice right now, but—" Her eyes suddenly popped, and she gasped. "Are you Madame Giry's daughter?"

"Certainly not," Marguerite said, wrinkling her nose.

"Oh, I thought perhaps you were her daughter come to visit. I _thought _she was supposed to be in Italy, dancing for the operas there." She laughed and waved a hand. "I'm sorry again! I just don't seem to know when to keep quiet."

Marguerite smiled, thinking she rather liked this girl. It had been a long time since she'd had a conversation with a young woman even close to her age. Her sense of survival, something she had never needed until a few months ago, told her to remain aloof to protect her identity, and Erik's. She could not possibly manage it, she decided, and took a step toward Katie.

"I don't mind at all," she said softly. "It would be nice to have some company."

Katie returned a flashing smile herself and helped herself to the bed, gracefully hopping onto the soft covers. "I don't know why Celine ran off like that. She can be such a ninny sometimes. So Marguerite, if you aren't a performer and you aren't Madame Giry's daughter, what _are _you doing here?"

"I just need a place to stay for a few days. My—fiancé—thought it best for me to be here." _Unfortunately, now I highly doubt his judgment_.

"Oh, you are to be married! Does he work for the _Opera Populaire_?"

"Erm…not quite."

"Oh." Katie wisely saw that Marguerite would not be pleased to discuss the matter further. She shrugged. "Well, Marguerite, I hope you have a nice stay here. I will gladly come back to visit you if you wish for more company. Though I would guess your fiancé is going to call on you sometime, as well?"

"Yes, I-I think so…sometime."

"If I may ask, what sort of man is he?" Her eyes twinkled. "I've never had a beau, and I'm excessively jealous of you! In a very friendly sort of way, of course. I imagine my time will come soon enough, though." She laughed. "Some wealthy patron of the opera house will take me away after seeing me dance in the corps de ballet!"

It was on the tip of Marguerite's tongue to warn Katie against such frivolous, dangerous dreaming, but stopped herself, deciding they did not know each other well enough yet. She just breathed and said, "My fiancé is a very special man." She turned to look out the window again, not wishing to say much more.

"I suppose I shouldn't have asked about such a thing," Katie said, pouting. "Not when I've only just met you. I'm always speaking up too much, and not always saying the right things." She slid off the bed and pranced over to Marguerite. "But I ought to be on my way now, Miss Marguerite. It was a pleasure to meet you, really, and I hope to see you again before you leave."

"Do come back," Marguerite said. "perhaps we can become better acquainted before then."

After Katie closed the door, nodding brightly, Marguerite waited a few minutes before sneaking out and down the back stairway. She found a back exit out of the dormitories and made her way around to Rue Scribe and the outside entrance to Erik's house.


	32. A Long Time Coming

**A/N: All right, VERY infrequent updates are ahead, because school is crazy these last 2 weeks of the semester, and I'm about to lose my mind. I'm rather uninspired, curse these term papers and exams and excessive reading assignments. So yes, be happy with what I give you, because it will be quite scanty until I'm done with school! Wow…such an imperious artiste…I sound like Erik. MUAHAHAHAHAHA!  
****Lots of Kay details later in this chapter…just so you're warned, if you haven't read it and end up confused.**

**Valandah: **That is quite an interesting idea, but no, I can tell you it's not really what's going to happen.

**Nade-Naberrie: **Oh gosh…pretty please with a Gerry on top…that can be taken in so many ways, all of which are quite appealing…

**Anonymous: **Thanks for the correction; I'd completely forgotten about that, so I went back and changed it.

**Opal Gimstone:** That's so funny, she's just like you? Wow…I'll have to be careful, now!

**Everyone else, thank you for your support!I'm going to make the chapters longer, but not as long as the previous one. And FYI...I'm really nervous about posting this one, too. --sigh-- I'm just a mass of insecurity I suppose.**

Disclaimer: It's on Chapter 1…Oh, and since I put a Shakespeare sonnet in here, I guess I should give him credit, too?

She did not see Erik anywhere as she came through the mirror frame. He was not at his desk, at the organ, or even in his boat, disappearing around a bend in the labyrinth. A mass of white at the edge of the shore caught her eye, and she moved toward it. The mask! Erik's mask was on the floor, beside a pile of fabric which, when she picked it up, she saw to be a shirt. She quickly dropped it again. Where would Erik be? With another wary look at the mask, she wondered why it scared her so to see it alone.

Because it meant that Erik was not wearing it.

Marguerite took a deep breath. She had seen him without his mask only when she had gently removed it and taken in the gruesome sight for the first time. She _knew _she could get used to it, and she would. It was the entire man she loved, and she was going to marry him. A few tears burned her eyes. She hardly even thought of his deformity anymore—his face was just one of the many pieces that created the puzzle Erik. Still…it was a frightening sight.

_You'll _have _to get used to it_, she thought. _Do you think he sleeps with the mask on? Every morning, you will wake up to see his face in its entirety—perfect and imperfect_. _If you show any horror, he's going to doubt your love, even if _you _don't_.

_I won't notice it_. _I swear_. _I'm not a shallow little girl_. _I'm no longer swayed by a handsome countenance and a full pocketbook_.

These thoughts swept through her mind, mingling with the considerations planted by Madame Giry and interrupted by sounds of the lake's surface being disturbed. She started, looking around once more, and her more sensible line of thinking took a brief leave of absence. Where had he gone? For the first time, a terrible thought struck her that he might be in danger. Had that Giry woman called in the Paris police? Had they come to take the Phantom of the Opera away for good?

_Erik, what would I do without you?_

She crouched to pick up the shirt again. It was not torn, simply…unbuttoned. One of the sleeves had been turned inside-out as it was removed, but it did not seem to have been taken from him by force. Marguerite bundled the fabric together and brought it to her nose, closing her eyes to inhale Erik's scent, masculine and exotic and all-around glorious.

When the sound of splashing again penetrated her ears and her thinking, she looked out over the water at last, just as a dark head and bare shoulders emerged from below. Erik sputtered a little when he turned and saw her staring at him from her place on the land. His right hand came up to cover his face, and he struck out for shore with his left.

_This is what I saw that night,_ she thought, remembering those cold, dark moments when she was so near destruction and certain death. _I wasn't conscious enough to know it then, but that is the face of my guardian angel_. He was still swimming toward her, his abnormality concealed. Marcel's ghost had no hold on him in those murky waters. _Erik _had nothing to fear.

The doubts Madame Giry had planted in Marguerite's mind dissolved at the sight of his strength and his shame. Ought she to even care why he was marrying her? He had saved her life, and from a catastrophic fate, more times than he could even know. How could she not do the same for him? She could not toss him aside and condemn him to the same darkness in which he had always lived. She was the only light he had now, and she was not going to let it be extinguished for anything. If he was her guardian angel, she would be his champion, and for the rest of her life she would fight the shadows that threatened their future.

But she still had to ask him…

As he emerged from the water, she turned her face, biting her lip and blushing vividly. He was bare from the waist up, and she was still holding his shirt. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stoop down to pick up his mask and replace it.

"I wasn't expecting you," he said. She knew, if she looked, he would be smirking at her.

"You swim in that lake?"

"Occasionally."

"Do you know what's under there?" She stared at the body of water with such utter terror, Erik was actually uneasy.

"There's nothing there to harm you," he said. "It's just…very cold."

"_He's_ there," she whispered. "Oh, I know he's dead. I just…keep thinking of those waters closing over my head, and everything about to go black…"

"It's over," Erik said brusquely, cutting through her distress. "He's gone."

Marguerite closed her eyes a moment to calm her thoughts. "I don't even remember why I came."

A corner of Erik's mouth tipped upward. "You missed me already."

She laughed nervously. "Probably." He saw the muscles in her neck flex with tension. "I wonder if my family misses _me_."

"Marguerite, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here."

"You didn't bring me here, I came on my own."

"I mean that night. I should have taken you above, so your family could have found you, instead of keeping you here. You could have seen a doctor for your injuries, and whoever took care of you would have been much more—sympathetic—than I was. You wouldn't have had to lie to your family." He took her hand. "You could have been cared for in your own home, perfectly warm and safe, and instead, you suffered down here with me and are now estranged from your parents for covering up a death I caused."

"There's no one else I would rather _suffer _with," she said. "It would…it would be nice if it could have been different. But things wouldn't have turned out…this way." She paused to think, trying to form just the right words before speaking them aloud. Her eyes wandered over Erik and she never realized she was doing it until she noticed the goose bumps on his bare arms.

"Erik, it's freezing down here and you're still wet. You should get dressed, or _you'll _need a doctor."

"I know plenty of remedies of my own, thank you," he said, taking the shirt out of her hands and going down the corridor. She listened to the door close; this time, there was no rattling of a key in the lock. As she waited, Marguerite glanced around the room. Nothing had changed since the last time, except…the miniature stage was missing from his desk. Musing upon that, she reclined on the couch and watched the water and mist until Erik reemerged, wearing his white shirt again, different trousers, and an open black robe. Marguerite smiled to herself, thinking he still looked so very _elegant_. What other word was more appropriate to describe him?

When she remembered why she had come down to his lair, her expression grew cool.

"I had this nagging little doubt in my mind," she said. "And when I tried to ignore it, it started screaming." He gave her an enigmatic look and waited for her to go on. "I met an old friend of yours today, Erik. She had some rather interesting things to say."

The only change in his expression was a widening of his eyes; if she could have actually looked through him, she would have also seen his heartbeat speeding up.

"I see you remember Madame Antoinette Giry. Or perhaps you thought I was going to say _Christine?_" Her words were met with stony silence, though his eyes lost their surprised expression. "Madame Giry raised a few questions I hadn't thought to ask myself. Or if I had, I would have chosen to overlook them."

She groaned softly at his unrelenting refusal to speak and continued. "Erik, if you don't already realize it…you must know that in becoming your wife, I want to be your lifelong companion. You won't be alone anymore. I want to help fight the darkness in your life, but…is that what you want from me? You agreed to marry me—I suppose I'd better know _why_."

Erik closed his eyes in melancholy before reaching for her again. When she resisted his attempts to pull her closer, he simply took her hand. His voice held an aggravation not reflected in his touch.

"I couldn't have spent day after day in your company and remained unaffected," he finally said. "I tried, but I failed. Yes, I will say I _failed_. You're in my head, Marguerite. I've tried to _get _you out, and I can't, and…I don't want to."

She moved away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. "I never told you what Marcel said to me that night."

"Do go on." His voice was dreadfully frigid, feeling dejected that she wanted to stand so far from him.

"Only if you agree to tell me about—you. You needn't tell me everything in your past, Erik, if you don't want to, but _I_ need to know _something_."

His sigh was frustrated. "All right." He waved his hand for her to continue, his movement vaguely like orchestra conducting.

Marguerite took a deep breath and continued, but she could not remain calm, and her words grew more and more impatient and tortured. "Marcel said he knew you were alive. He called me the Phantom's whore." She saw Erik flinch. "I told him no! it's not like that. But I've been wondering. Is that all I _am _to be? Is that all you _need_?" She chuckled strangely, suddenly calm. "But I forget. You need someone to clean your desk."

"It was never my—"

Her anger blazed up again. "Is this all that I was born for? One way or another, I'm to become some man's harlot? Damn it, Erik, I thought that I was better than that!"

"Marguerite, please stop!"

"Then tell me! Give me something to tell me otherwise!"

He took a few steps toward her and snatched her wrists, yanking her closer to him. "You're being a fool! What do you need to know?" He roughly cupped her face.

"I love you, Marguerite. Is that what you needed to hear? I'd want you here with me even if I couldn't marry you and make love to you. I know I've been a cold-hearted bastard, but dammit, I would _die _for you. Christine never gave me my humanity. I was her Angel and her worst nightmare, but never _really _a man. I'd spoken those same three words, and they meant _nothing_ to her!" His spellbinding voice quieted when he saw the dampness flowing down Marguerite's face. "And now I know that's all _you _wanted to hear."

He gentled his hold on her chin, remaining as silent as she, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, wiping away her tears and fighting back his own. His eyes traveled all over her face, taking in every shadow and contour. Her skin grew warm beneath his fingers, and the blush spread out from her cheeks. She closed her eyes, his presence and his touch heady to her senses. His fingertips traced her forehead, eyebrows, under the eyes, and over her mouth. When she opened her eyes again and met his, she saw herself in them. She saw his desire, his power, and his remarkable tenderness, and she wanted so much to succumb to it all.

"I love you, Erik," she said. "No matter what, you'll remember that, won't you?" She didn't know what might happen, but if it did, she had to make sure he knew. In response, he smiled that enticing, languid smile that made her stomach drop.

"I will take it to my grave." He leaned down to kiss her, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"You promised," she whispered, taking his hands and leading him over to the couch. "Tell me about Erik."

He didn't want to tell her, didn't want to have to repulse, shock, and terrify her any more than he had already done a thousand times over. Even with her hands wrapped around his, he felt as distanced from her as if he were in his boat on the lake, with her standing ashore. He found himself wishing he could just be Marguerite's Angel of Music, fully trusted and fully supernatural. He could weave a beguiling fantasy for her, and indeed his true past held many exotic details. But she would not believe him. She saw him as a man—an extraordinary man, but still a man.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Anything. Your childhood, your schooling, how you came here…anything."

"You really don't want to know this, Marguerite."

"I know I do, Erik. Stop arguing with me."

"Well, then." He paused a long time before speaking again. "My father was already dead when I was born, and mother hated me beyond anything you could possibly conceive. According to her, and to the doctor attending my birth, I was too hideous to live and should have rotted away in her womb. But she did make sure I was _educated_." He smiled cynically. "I was a prodigy, you know. But I couldn't be sent away to school. I couldn't leave the _house_. My mother was afraid _she _would be torn apart by the villagers who thought she was rearing the Devil's spawn. Instead, I would sneak out at night, and sometimes _I _was the one torn apart.

"I finally ran away when I was just an adolescent, and ended up with the gypsies. I earned quite a reputation as the newest attraction to their little traveling carnival. _The Living Corpse_. They kept me in a cage. I wasn't even human, but with this demon's face and angel's voice, how could I be?" He paused for a moment to smirk. "You're so pale, my darling. I'm only giving you what you want—the bare _truth_. Is it too horrific? Shall I cease this fascinating autobiography?"

Marguerite chewed her lip, her heart aching. Why? Why had he been born to this? What would Erik have become if things were different? She almost did ask him to stop, but if she did that, he might never tell her anything else should she ask him again.

Instead, she said, "Don't you remember anything good?"

_Giovanni, _he thought, swallowing and turning away from her. "The stonemason who trained me. A widower. He treated me as his own son." _Nadir…Christine…There were others_. "And then I remember a silly little girl bringing me Christmas dinner. It was about a week late, but the sentiment was there." When he looked back again, Marguerite knew he was referring to her.

"That silly little girl was rather hurt that you weren't more appreciative of her gift," she said. "She was only just beginning to fall in love with you."

"She shouldn't have been so surprised that he was ungrateful."

"Don't worry, she wasn't." Erik remained quiet, and Marguerite finally brought herself closer, folding her legs up beneath herself and leaning into him. "I wish I could have known you when you were a child, and knowing what was to come."

"And what good would that have been?"

"I could have been your friend."

"You wouldn't have wanted to."

"Erik, wallowing in self-pity really won't improve matters at all."

His temper flared for a second, but quickly cooled. "It's not self-pity. I'm being as honest as I ever was. I was a tempestuous, wicked child who took great pleasure in tormenting my mother any way I could. And people in general." He thought of his time in Persia, commissioned to construct elaborate, innovative tortures for the prisoners. She was _never _going to know about that. "I hated them as they hated me. My only friend was the dog."

"Well then I'm glad you're giving _me _a chance," Marguerite said peevishly.

Hoping she might drop the subject of his personal history, Erik kissed the top of her head. "I think you make an agreeable substitute."

She snorted softly in response. Then an idea came to her mind. "Erik, may I read to you?"

He blinked several times; obviously this was not something he had expected her to say. "I can't imagine why, but…yes, of course."

"I can go into your bedroom and choose something?"

He tensed; no one went in there. That dark bedroom with the coffin, smelling of death and despondency, was _his_. Marguerite had already been in there once, he reminded himself, and under very different circumstances. After some hesitation, he nodded curtly, and she stood up and went to look over his volumes. He sighed to himself. It might take her quite a while to choose among his extensive collection. Actually, it was only a few minutes before she came back with a slender book simply titled _The Sonnets of William Shakespeare_.

"What are all those things on the shelves? The glass and copper wiring and all that?"

"Just some experiments—inventions of mine," he said.

She smiled a bright, genuine smile, and he loved her for it. "I didn't know you were a scientist."

"Milady, I am many things," he said, more grim than teasing.

"That you are," she said, taking a seat beside him again. "I should have warned you I love to read aloud. I wanted to before, but…" …_you were always so angry with me_. She shrugged and coughed delicately and opened the book halfway through, slowly flipping pages until she came to one that caught her eye.

"I tried memorizing this one a long time ago. Sonnet 91." She read directly from the book:

_Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,  
__Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,  
__Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,  
__Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;  
__And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,  
__Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:  
__But these particulars are not my measure,  
__All these I better in one general best.  
__Thy love is better than high birth to me,  
__Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,  
__Of more delight than hawks or horses be;  
__And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:  
__Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take  
__All this away and me most wretched make._

In reading poetry, her voice became deeper, richer, and lilting in the rhythms of the lines. She captured the meaning of each word and projected it. The words were musical, without melody, and Erik was pleasantly surprised. She brought the Bard back to life. His eyes wandered, wondering if this was real—a woman was reading love poetry to him.

"Very touching," he said.

"It means a lot more to me now than it did the first time I read it."

Erik reached behind her head to toy with her thick braid of hair. "As to me."

* * *

"Henri, you really ought to go find this girl if she means so very much to you." 

"I've been telling you, the problem is that I _can't _find her! One day she's working in this little bookshop and seems reasonably content, and was…well, she was less than warm when I saw her. But she wasn't particularly nervous or rude. She certainly didn't want to talk about Marcel, except to say she didn't know where he was. And then I go back again, and the proprietor said she left that very same night with some tall man in a dark cloak, and hadn't been back since."

"Obviously she's a rather loose woman, and simply found someone more appealing than Monsieur D'Aubigne or yourself." He laughed. "I'm sorry to bring it to your attention."

"What if it was Marcel? No one has seen him since the Mardi Gras masquerade at the _Opera Populaire_. You and your wife were there, weren't you?"

"I never did like masquerades. I lost track of Christine for a good hour that night. But what are you so worried about Marcel for? You two were never exactly amiable."

"Only on the subject of women were we enemies," Henri corrected, "particularly when we admired the same one. In this case, Marguerite Gautier. Though I won't hesitate to say that Marcel did have a bit of the scoundrel in him. Or potential, anyway"

"Yes," Raoul said. "I could see that. But our families have been friends for years and I wouldn't dare denounce him. I'm sure no one's seen him because he just doesn't want to be seen. And I daresay Mademoiselle Gautier is no longer of interest to him."

"Unless he was the man who took her from the bookstore."

"There's always that possibility. But I doubt Marcel would take that particular line of action." Raoul smiled. "By all means, go on a search for this damsel of yours if you miss her that much."

"Yes, you of all people should know what it's like to have a woman taken from you."

The Vicomte dropped his charming grin. "I'm afraid I do, and I ask you never to mention it again. And if you do so in front of my wife, monsieur, you will have to pay an unpleasant price. To think of it still upsets her. Not as much as before, of course, but I intend to protect her in any way possible. That includes imprudent comments from young men who know too much for their own good." Raoul smiled at his friend to lighten the threat, though he meant it with all his heart, and Henri knew it.

"I would never intentionally offend any de Chagny," Henri said with a smile of his own.


	33. Still He Haunts

**A/N: Again, thanks to everyone for their support. This update is coming a little sooner than I expected, but I was adding bits and pieces to it, realized it was finished, and then said "OK why not?" So enjoy. (I was a little worried at the significantly fewer reviews on the last chapter than usual...I was starting to get paranoid and question myself...Don't make me go through that again!) No review replies today...no time!**

Disclaimer: I don't really own it.

"All these years, and you've had the best seat in the house," Marguerite said as Erik led her down the rickety, treacherous stairway from one of the lesser (or rather, never) used catwalks. By now the audience had filtered out, and the performers and stage hands had gone home. Erik and Marguerite had watched the opera for free, and those who paid exorbitant fees for their seats did not have half so glorious a view. They saw the stage and the actors, and a snippet of backstage, which, for Marguerite, only added to the magic of the performance.

"Mademoiselle Debeteaux was much better this time," Marguerite continued in a whisper. "At least, I thought so. I do believe you're a little too hard on her."

"I only wish to surround myself with the best of everything," he said, "not least of which is the quality of performers in my opera house. I care little for Debeteaux. If your father dared to bring back La Carlotta, however, there would be hell to pay."

Marguerite made no further comment for a while as they made their winding way through the building. There was no point in risking being seen, and she trusted Erik to know the routes that would keep them hidden from any lingering employees. She remained as close to him as possible without hindering their walking. She had spent the entire afternoon and evening with him, and knew he was about to see her to the door of her room in the dormitories—God forbid any of the ballerinas be awake! Yes, Erik would be there tomorrow, but she wanted to savor the last moments of this particular day beside him.

"If you prefer to surround yourself with the best," she said in fun, "what am I doing here?"

Erik paused and turned to face her, holding her upper arms and pulling her against him, his hands sliding around to her back, just below the shoulders. "Because I've never held anything that felt this good."

"Oh, is that it," she said, returning the embrace. She relaxed a little too easily, and Erik nudged her away from him.

"I can see it's time for you to get some sleep."

"I may be tired, but I'm not a child," Marguerite said, her sentence punctuated by an enormous yawn that made Erik chuckle. "I wouldn't mind losing any amount of sleep for that opera."

"Perhaps," Erik said, taking her hand as they turned down another narrow passageway, "we may see it again, tomorrow night." His grip tightened. "As a wedding present."

Marguerite stopped walking so abruptly Erik stumbled when he tried to keep going.

"Is it…tomorrow?"

"The day after," he said, turning his burning gaze back to her. "Not too soon, I hope."

"Never," she said, though her heart was pounding in her ears and suddenly she couldn't get quite enough air into her lungs. They set off again. "And…everything is arranged?"

"For the most part. There are a few details I'd like to see resolved, but they may not be as possible as I thought. The bare necessities are arranged, however." He cleared his throat. "I hope you still aren't expecting that fairy tale."

"How many times must I tell you, I don't want it?" she asked.

At last they came to the connector hallway between the dormitories and the _Opera Populaire _itself, and then the back staircase leading up to the landing right around the corner from Marguerite's room. Erik stopped to listen and look around, but everything was silent as death, with no one stirring anywhere nearby, and they silently ascended the stairs.

"You will come tomorrow?" she whispered at the door to her room.

"When you're good and rested," he said, noting the darkness beneath her eyes, and her wan expression.

"Good night, Erik," she said, wobbling up on her toes to lightly peck his unmasked cheek. When her feet were firmly on the ground again, Erik pulled her into a heated kiss, the passion of which took her completely by surprise. It sent her heart racing again, and her stomach was thrown somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. When he stepped back, she was visibly shaken, and he gave her a lazy smile.

"Pleasant dreams," he said, melting into the shadows.

* * *

Giry was putting on her shawl, preparing to leave after a long discussion with her friend about the evening's performance. Luvier had begun to nod off until Giry insisted she get some sleep. The former ballet mistress was wide-awake, however, despite the late hour. Seeing the girls dance tonight had inspired her to think of ways to improve their dance, making countless mental notes to propose her ideas to Luvier the next day. She picked up a lighted candle to see her way to the exit, and went out into the dark corridor. 

She had taken barely ten steps before she heard a too-familiar voice behind her.

"You're very brave to keep coming back here, knowing I'm alive."

She stopped walking and closed her eyes.

"What have you been telling her, Giry?" Erik moved slowly around the stiff, straight form to stand in front of her. "Marguerite was very upset when she came to see me earlier today. I hope you haven't revealed too many unpleasant details."

"What are you doing with her?"

"Answer _my_ question, Giry."

The former ballet mistress sighed deeply, buying a few more seconds. "She…well, she already knew about Christine."

"Indeed."

"I felt I should—tell her to make sure she knew what she was getting into."

"Go on."

What else to tell him? Anything else would be superfluous, and sure to further incite his wrath. "She's not a singer. I find that interesting. How did you happen to cross paths with her?"

"You are not the one to ask questions. It is none of your business."

"Very well then. Do allow me to say, she seems a rather special young woman. I certainly hope you don't intend to play the part of Don Juan and tear her heart out with your teeth."

Erik narrowed his eyes, thinking he could kill her right then and there. Would anyone miss her? He looked at her face, realizing there was no fear there.

"I don't intend to," he said curtly.

"Erik, don't give her the grief you forced upon Christine."

"Oh, Marguerite has suffered enough for my sake."

"And yet she comes to you, as you said she did today. She has seen your domain within the labyrinths and has gone there willingly…?"

Erik said, "Impossible as that is to believe."

"She is sure you love her," Giry said. "That much she did tell me, and though she seems quite emotional, she's not a fool. But…what of Christine?"

"The Vicomtess is quite content with her lot in life, apparently," Erik said. "Whether she likes it or not, she and I are forever bonded by music. Marguerite, however, will become my wife."

"So she said."

"Then believe her. And leave her alone, you foolish woman. Don't try to help matters any, or _protect_ her. I will _never_ intentionally hurt her, Giry. You could never understand the way it is. She is none of your concern."

"Perhaps I cannot help but be concerned."

Erik frowned, deeply and dangerously. Giry saw the warning signs and said no more.

"Go," he said, and Giry silently, immediately obeyed, carrying her head high.

* * *

Gautier looked up at the knock upon his office door and frowned. He had said he wished to speak to no one yet today! Not a disgruntled diva, not a bargaining patron, not a member of last night's audience demanding their money back, and not an aspiring composer insisting he _must _take a look at his manuscript and agree to put on this new masterpiece. 

"Who is it?" he barked.

The door swung open to show Henri Laroche, his thin frame clothed in an expensive dark blue suit. Gautier lost his fierce expression at the sight of his friend's son.

"Good morning, Monsieur Henri. What brings you here today?"

Henri chewed his upper lip, thinking. "Monsieur Gautier, I see no tactful way to begin. I'm afraid I'm here to speak to you of a rather—uncomfortable—topic, and I pray you would indulge me."

"What is this?"

"It is a matter concerning…your daughter, Marguerite."

Henri was not sure what it was that flashed within Gautier's eyes, but it defied the chill with which the older man set the rest of his features.

"There is little that _should _concern me about her, young man. You must know by now, she is no longer…a member of our household."

"Yes, I have heard. Because of something of a scandal with Monsieur Marcel D'Aubigne, if you'll forgive me for bringing it up. However, there was an…occurrence several nights past which may alter things a bit."

"How so?"

"I encountered Mademoiselle Gautier in a bookshop—several blocks from this very opera house—where she was employed." At Gautier's confused expression, he added, "She doesn't know where Marcel is. I think he abandoned her, for she was quite reluctant to talk about him."

Gautier's eyes shifted quickly around the room as his countenance fell. Henri was somewhat touched when he realized the man must still care for his daughter, even just a little, despite what actions anyone in that family had taken.

"My wife tells me his mother called on her one day, ranting and positively screaming, saying she had met Marguerite in the streets. She demanded to know where her son was, and where we were hiding the two."

"I thought they would be far from Paris by now," Henri said, half to himself.

"Yes, one might think that, I suppose." For a few seconds, silence hung heavily in the room.

"Would you and your wife take her back, monsieur, if you had the chance?" Henri wondered himself what he would do in the situation. As he stood now, he was quite confused. Since the day he met her, he found something rather delightful about Marguerite. Unfortunately, Marcel had taken to her as well, and Henri knew when to bow out of a competition—always sensing that Marcel merely wanted the thrill of conquest without actually desiring the prize. With Marcel apparently out of the running, and God only knew where, Henri wondered if he should take up this opportunity that seemed to have just been handed to him. Of course, Marguerite was still significantly out of his reach, considering _her _whereabouts were as yet unknown as well…

"Society's laws can be rather—cruel and stifling sometimes," Gautier said, sighing a deep and solemn sigh that failed to expel the weight from his shoulders. "And human nature dictates that we make reckless decisions once in a while. There is nothing right in what Marguerite has done. And Marcel, as her _accomplice _of sorts, if you can call it that, must share the blame. Whatever has befallen her, it is through no one's fault but her own. And yet…"

He shook his head. "If we did cross paths again…I believe I should be far kinder than I have been." He lifted his eyes to Henri's, and the younger man saw his contrition.

"You could send the police out on another search," Henri said, "as you did when you first found out they were missing."

"No, no, if she never comes back, then I would assume she'd prefer it that way."

"Monsieur," Henri said. "I would be only too happy to…to conduct a discreet search for her myself. I can share with you any information I find, if you would like. If I do find Mademoiselle Gautier, and if she does indeed know of—the legal situation—I can tell her all is forgiven, and she may return home if she wishes."

Gautier cleared his throat. "Do as you wish. I needn't hear of anything you discover, but…I thank you still."

"Certainly, Monsieur Gautier. Good day to you."

* * *

_Something's not right_, Marguerite thought as her eyelids fluttered, her mind slowly returning to consciousness after a full night of sleep. 

There was a warm weight over her whole body, and she stretched out a hand to run it over simple, soft blankets. Sunlight was peeking through the window, and she heard the sounds of an awakening Paris. She lifted her head off the pillow, blinking, realizing…she was rested. She felt…_safe_, and comfortable. How long had it been since she had awoken with that feeling? It took her a few moments to get her bearings, and then she remembered where she was—had it been only since yesterday?—and why she was there.

_I'm getting married tomorrow_.

She quickly sat up at the thought, almost knocking her skull into the headboard.

_Tomorrow_.

Her mouth went dry, and her pulse went rapid at the memory of Erik's kiss last night. How would she be feeling at the end of the day today, with the event even closer in the future? Her lips parted slightly and her hand came up to cover them. Her throat began to ache as tears struggled to the surfaces of her eyes, her yearning for her fiancé flooding her whole being. Good lord, what lay in store for her…for both of them?

Her eyes began to wander around the room, even as her mind remained fixed. It held nothing much different from her small flat by the bookstore, but everything was a little better quality. There was a wardrobe, as well as a basin, a flickering fireplace, a chair, a dressing screen, a nightstand, and two windows instead of one. She absently wondered where Beatrice was, then remembered the cat was staying with Erik, and Marguerite sincerely hoped he remembered to feed her.

She turned her head and something on the nightstand caught her eye. It was a piece of paper with obsidian ink, and Erik's name was written at the bottom. The letter had obviously been composed and left for her as she slept.

_Dearest Marguerite,_

_Should you wish for a change of attire, you have only to look into the wardrobe in your room_. _I'm quite confident they are all of correct measurements_. _They have only just been completed this evening, and I was able to obtain them after hours_. _Of course these items shall be moved to your room in my house after tomorrow, but until then I realize you would find it highly improper to descend to the fifth cellar to dress (though I myself would possess no such objections)_.

_If you can manage not to be seen, when you are prepared I would recommend you come here_. _At this time of the morning, there are more ballet rats scurrying about than I had expected, and I must stay hidden from those little gossipers_._ I'm sure you understand_.

_Yours,_

_Erik_

Immediately after reading she hopped out of bed and crossed the room to the armoire. Two dresses—one charcoal gray, one dark rose—and a silky white nightgown greeted her from their hangers. She smiled and pulled out the drawer. After she gasped, she felt quite silly and juvenile. What had she _expected _to see inside? Generally, she had anticipated exactly what was there—stockings, petticoats, a corset…

Undergarments.

Erik had purchased new undergarments for her. And when she took them out of the drawer, she saw they would fit her perfectly, and she felt the heat rise up in her face again. Was there someone a little wrong about this entire situation she couldn't quite put her finger on? She was just about to change into the new items when there was a light, timid knock at her door.

"Marguerite?" The voice was feminine, and Katie's.

Ashamed at the shabby condition of the "unmentionables" already on her body, she ducked behind the screen with the new ones. "Come in, Katie, quickly!"

Katie's brow was furrowed when she came in and glanced around the room, and then laughed when she saw Marguerite peeking out at her. "Have I interrupted your morning toilette, mademoiselle?"

"I'm afraid…I shall need some assistance."

"Of course. I don't know how well I could tie your corset, but I'll try my best to suffocate you," Katie said, her hazel eyes twinkling as she glanced over at the wardrobe. "What lovely dresses! Which one will you be wearing?"

"The pink one," Marguerite said, hopping on one leg to pull up her stocking, "but if you wouldn't mind helping me with my corset first—"

"Not at all!" Katie picked up the frighteningly stiff structure and helped Marguerite into it. She was not as adept at pulling and tightening it, but the end result was probably more comfortable for Marguerite than if someone stronger or more experienced had helped.

"Oh, you look lovely!" Katie said once she helped button up the frock. "I'm so glad I came by when I did. You certainly needed my help." She frowned. "But what of your hair? And you haven't any jewelry, have you?"

"No, no jewelry. And my hair isn't really to be worried about."

"Let me do something about it," Katie said, rushing out of the room before Marguerite could protest, leaving her helplessly wondering what she was getting herself into now.

Several minutes later, Katie returned with a brush, a comb, and a small box full of hair pins, and instructed Marguerite to take a seat in the chair. She immediately went to work on her mass of black hair.

"I'm going to assume you will be seeing your fiancé today," she said.

Marguerite bit her lip. "How do you know that?"

"Well…you told me yourself you were to be married! What else would you be doing? I want to help you look nice for him."

"You don't even know who he is," Marguerite said, immediately regretting it.

"Shall you tell me?"

A pause. "No, I-I can't."

"Oh." Katie's face fell a little, but since she was standing behind Marguerite, it went unseen. "Well I suppose I haven't _really_ any right to know." She giggled. "I've only just met you yesterday. But forgive me if I seem impudent in saying I quite liked you right away and I hope we can become friends before you leave."

"Thank you," Marguerite said, the last words spoken in that room for several minutes. Once Katie had brushed out all the tangles, she felt various small tugs on her hair.

"Hmm, this is more difficult than I expected," Katie said. "Wait a moment, I think I have it."

Marguerite felt one last gentle pull on her head, and a pin lightly scraped her scalp as the locks were twisted and prodded into place. The silence was tense as Katie concentrated and Marguerite nervously wondered what was going on behind her own head.

"There! That's a very nice chignon, if I may say so. You look charming."

"Thank you," Marguerite said again. "You're very sweet."

"Oh, think nothing of it," Katie said. "Erm…Marguerite, may I ask you where your wedding is to be held?" Marguerite squinted at her. Why did she need to know? At the look on her face, the ballerina shrank back a bit. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so nosy."

"It's quite all right," Marguerite said. "It's only natural for a girl to wonder that about someone else, I suppose."

Katie smiled widely. "Oh, yes! I can't hear enough about such things. I believe I'm just hopelessly romantic. That's what my mother told me, anyway, when I said I wanted to study ballet in Paris."

"Indeed. How long have you been here?" It was her turn to smile. Now who was being curious?

"Since I was nine," Katie answered. "I was training in England until then, but it just wasn't enough. So I finally convinced my parents to send me here." She paused to think a moment. "Yes, I was nine. I can't believe it! That was eight whole years ago. I feel so old." She laughed.

Without a mirror, Marguerite knew her face was gradually losing its color. She had been in the dormitories of the _Opera Populaire_ for eight years…

"Then you—" She swallowed. "—you were here when—when Mademoiselle Daae—"

"Oh, don't speak of it!" Katie gasped, her smile dropping like a landslide. "Yes, I knew Christine, only just a bit, but you _mustn't_ speak of it. Especially not of…_him_." Her eyes became wildly frightened. "Her kidnapper."

"What do you know?" Marguerite asked, struggling for self-control, fighting to seem casual, and not so _very _interested.

"No, I-I can't say anything about it. It's bad luck. You speak of _him_, his name, his title, and he hears you, and it invokes disaster!" She shook her head. "You must talk of other things."

Marguerite, fueled by morbid curiosity and a desire to defend Erik, grabbed the dancer's shoulder. "There is nothing else I wish to talk of." Katie opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again.

"Why?"

"I am extraordinarily interested in the Phantom of the Opera."

Katie clenched her teeth and groaned. "Oh, don't speak so freely of him."

"Why not? I thought he was dead."

"A _ghost_ cannot die again, Marguerite. No, everyone believes it is as you say. But," she added in a whisper, glancing around the room, "I have felt his presence all over the opera house. And once I _saw_ him. Or, at least I saw the side of his face—dead white and featureless. It shone in the darkness far above the stage." She took a deep breath. "I have told no one of this before."

Marguerite nodded. "That was wise."

Katie smiled timidly. "Otherwise we wouldn't have had the chance to meet. Your fiancé would not have wanted you to stay here if he knew _he _was still haunting the opera house."

"I assure you," Marguerite said, her irony lost on Katie, "it makes no difference to him."


	34. The Opera's True Ghost

**A/N: SURPRISE! I finished ALL my horrid papers (all that's left is to study for finals!) and I am celebrating by posting a new chapter much, MUCH earlier than I had planned! I love this chapter. I hope you all love it as well. (I couldn't dream up any appropriate lyrics of my own, so I changed some familiar ones, and it seemed to work --crosses fingers--)**

**_IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!_** **"A Piece of My Heart" has set up a fanfictionReader's Choice Awards, and I am helping to spread the word,so check it out! Go to my profile page,find her penname under my'favorite authors' list and take a look at her profile for all the info you need.**

Now, back to my story: Just to save you the suspense, the blonde girl in this chapter is _not_ Meg Giry!  
**And on another note…I didn't think I could ever write such fluff. But —sigh— it can be rather nice. I have to release an _angst warning_ for this chapter! And a return of some more familiar characters! This may or may not be their last appearance, however…we'll just have to wait and see!**

Disclaimer: As I've said before—you may recall—I only own the characters which are so obviously OC's. Everything else belongs to Leroux, Kay, or Webber. Particularly the songs.

Seeing how distraught Katie became at the mention of the Phantom, Marguerite tried to turn the conversation to a more lighthearted subject. It was not only out of concern for her new friend, but she was also afraid Katie might speak further injustices against Erik—albeit ignorantly. Marguerite would be forced to defend him fiercely, exposing far too much information to the already excessively inquisitive ballerina. She had to keep a clear mind and a cool head. Erik would not be put in danger by her own stupidity. At least, she would try not to let that happen.

Then she remembered the note, and her mind quickly worked on a way to escape the dormitory, and her present company, in order to see him. When Katie stopped to take a breath in between describing her slight stage fright at dancing in last night's opera and complaining about having to stand toward the back of the group, Marguerite spoke up.

"Well, Katie, thank you ever so much for all your help. I'm afraid I'm going to be leaving for a while, so—"

"For good?"

Marguerite actually laughed. "No, no! I'm…I have errands I must see to today. You know, last-minute wedding—erm—details."

"All right then," Katie said, opening the door slightly, "I'll walk you to the front door. I'd so like to introduce you to some of the other girls. They've been wondering who has taken up residence in that empty room, and I've actually been able to hold my tongue and not say a word! I wasn't sure if you would have liked it."

"I appreciate that," Marguerite said. "I wanted to…go to the chapel first. To pray. Alone."

"Oh." Katie raised her eyebrows. "Of course."

"Yes." She and Katie left the room and parted ways, Marguerite going down the back stairway and to the corridor connected to the opera house itself. She chewed her bottom lip, her belly aching with both hunger and nervousness at the prospect of possibly being discovered. Fortunately, she saw no one in the first hallway. She had to stop to recall where the chapel was. After walking for a minute in the wrong direction, she was about to turn around when she heard what she thought was a familiar voice, conversing with an unfamiliar one.

Marguerite peeked around the corner and gasped audibly. Henri was standing there—close to the foyer, it turned out—and talking to a short, slender blonde girl who looked to be another dancer. She had a simpering smile on her face and seemed entranced with the gentleman before her. Henri, however, appeared merely friendly. But when Marguerite gasped, in the next instant both heads looked toward her direction, and she ran the opposite way before they got a decent glimpse of her.

Her feet thudded on the wooden floor, keeping time with her heart. She skidded to a stop in front of the stone corridor leading to the chapel. When she believed Henri was calling her name far back from where she had run, she yanked open the cumbersome chapel doors without trying to keep quiet. She hurried across the room to the iron grate on the floor and pulled it up, slipping beneath it and replacing it, trying not to take a tumble down the steep steps under her feet.

Cautiously, she descended a few steps and then stopped, waiting for the footfalls to cease their echoing. When all was silent again, she heard the chapel doors open, reverberating down to her ears. She could picture Henri in her mind's eye, looking around the room, deep lines in his brow from concentration and confusion. What _was _he doing here, anyway? In another few seconds, she heard the doors slam closed again, and hush descended once more in the chapel. _Thank You, Lord,_ she prayed as she kept going downward.

Having forgotten just how lengthy this route was, she shivered and rubbed her arms to try to get warm. Springtime would not pierce the chill and darkness of the opera's cellars. Down another set of tightly winding stairs, and Marguerite found herself in one of the vast, dusty rooms she had once used as a sort of mile marker, assurance that she was on the right path. But as she reached the bottom of the stairs and took a few steps toward the set of stairs leading down to the trapdoor, she glanced to the side.

She abruptly stopped walking to stare in horror.

On the floor lay the mask and turban Marcel had worn on the night of the masquerade.

Marguerite clapped her hand over her mouth, feeling sick, her mind reeling and her spine softening as she remembered. Dear God, it was bad enough to recall, but to be in the very place once again! Tears stung her eyes, and she tried to take a breath and continue on her way. But as she approached the stairway, she saw pieces of cloth, and several buttons scattered across the floor. They were parts of her own dress, her costume from that night! She was looking at a crime scene, where she had been the victim…and no one had known. No one but the three of them—now only two.

With a cry, Marguerite raced down the last set of stairs and across the room to the trapdoor. She bent down to grasp the lever, her heart beating as rapidly as if she were still pursued. Two rounded, dark spots glared up at her from the wood, and she knew she was seeing her own blood. When she dropped through the space, she did not get up, but remained crumpled on the floor, forgetting about the new dress Erik had gone to the trouble to have made for her. Despite her best efforts, silent tears gushed forth.

She couldn't live here! Erik was the source of her dreams, and his home was her solace, but _this!_ All the rest of it held nothing but nightmares and terror for her. She would be dwelling in a tiny oasis in the very middle of it, and how could she escape this? Would she live out her days with Erik here, forced to forever confront the site, over and over again? Could she force Erik to bear the burden of _her _emotional scars, as well as everything else he'd lived through himself? Good lord, he didn't deserve a wife so tainted.

At last she rose to her feet and made her way to the stone pillar and the lever that would announce her presence. She stood behind the pillar, leaning against it and invisible from the water. She should have been coming to him all cheerful and pretty, her hair done up and clad in a new dress. Now she tried to smooth out the wrinkles, knowing her eyes must be quite red, her face streaked with dirt from where she had wiped at tears with dusty hands.

"You're dead," she whispered to the darkness. "You can't have me." She trembled as she spoke, wondering if, as Katie seemed to believe, she was invoking a cruel, dangerous spirit by speaking directly to him. Of course, this spirit was far more malicious than the one Katie imagined. A soft, frigid breeze grazed her cheek, and she jumped back from the stone column with a fierce shudder.

_You were always mine, didn't you realize it? Aren't you sorry now you ever refused me?_

No…I was never yours. You have no power.

_You shall carry my memory forever, dearest_. _Everywhere you go, I will be with you—in your nightmares, the darkest recesses of your memory_. _Can even a husband take away the stain I've left upon you?_

It never happened.

_No…So close, though…And if I were alive, I would attempt it again_._ Perhaps I can try from beyond the grave?_

Erik heard Marguerite's painful scream resonate, shaking the stone and stirring the water. He almost believed the stone gargoyles, their expressions already fierce, grimaced at the sound. Coming around the corner in his boat, he saw Marguerite on the shore. She was kneeling, her hands covering her scalp, sobbing loudly, rasping. His breathing came faster as he dug the pole into the water, hurrying, remembering that same night which was even now torturing her.

As he rowed closer, he noticed she was clothed in one of her new dresses, and her hair was arranged. But when she raised her face to look upon him, he saw the ashen skin that rivaled what he hid beneath his mask, streaked with dust, her red eyes wild with fear. Her hair was coming loose from her own fingers raking through it. Once his boat bumped against the shore, she sprang to her feet and jumped into it, almost knocking them both into the lake as her arms clamped around his middle.

She tried to speak, but every time she separated her lips, all that came out was a sob or gulp for air. Erik, completely taken aback by her behavior, said nothing, but she clung to him as if it were their last moments together.

Marguerite finally tilted back her head and looked up at him.

"Take me home, Erik."

He nodded solemnly and picked up the pole again to turn the boat around. The labyrinthine route was comforting, for she knew what lay at the end. She leaned back gingerly against his legs, his solidness at her back reminding her that he was still there.

Erik tensed when he felt her weight on his legs, struggling to concentrate on steering the gondola. Heat was spreading from the place where Marguerite was in contact with him, and it was difficult to keep his mind on anything else. Hopefully she would explain the reason behind her distress…and allow him to comfort her…

He shook his head vigorously. He could completely lose control if he allowed these thoughts to wander and grow. There was a suspicion in his mind as to what was bothering her, and innumerable emotions were inundating his soul at seeing her in so much agony again. Yet even as he tried to come up with a way to help, he kept thinking of how much he wanted her in every way possible. And she was coming to his home. _Take me home_. Just what did that really mean?

He scolded himself. She was in pure anguish, and his thoughts were—elsewhere. Oh, he was going to make a most inspiring husband! Even with the inevitable rocking of the boat as they made their way through the mist and the darkness, Erik could feel her trembling. Should he even ask what happened?

At last they reached the edge of his house, and Marguerite heaved a sigh. She hopped out of the boat as he tied it up and fell onto the couch, hiding her face against the arm. When Erik had finished his task, he stood up straight and watched her for a moment, wondering just what he was supposed to do. He finally knelt at the couch beside her and lightly brushed her hair. When she shuddered, he thought it was from his touch, but then she raised her hand and found his without looking, grasping it like a lifeline.

She turned her head and sat up, swallowing and staring into his eyes.

"You killed him, yes?"

Erik's eyes widened in horror of his own, and she couldn't even discern all that was within. But the expression passed quickly when he realized who she was talking about. He nodded solemnly. "I did."

Marguerite leaned down to embrace him and bury her face in his shoulder.

"Don't leave me, Erik."

He blinked and slowly stood up, breaking away from her briefly to sit beside her. "What has happened?"

She clenched her eyes shut. "I came down through the chapel. It was how I led Chri—how I came down the night of the masquerade. I hadn't been that way since, for you go up another way, and when I…I left before, that's where I went, but I came down through the trapdoor…"

"You never had any trouble before."

"There were remnants of it—of _me_—all over the room. Because of _him_. My dress was torn, and…my blood…" She choked, and Erik drew her closer, planting a kiss against her hair. "It came back to me again, Erik. Will it ever be over? Do I have to keep reliving it? Would it be any worse of a horror if he had finished what he started?"

"It _is _over," he said. "Listen to me. No one's going to hurt you."

She felt horribly infantile, and overwhelmed with shame. What did Erik think of this foolishness on her part? If he was ever to regret anything about her, it certainly would be now. And she could hold nothing against him for it.

"I'm such an imbecile. I'm running from something unreal."

"No, you can't be blamed—"

"But it's twice he tried to take me, Erik. If he tried again…he would succeed."

"He's dead."

_Perhaps I can try from beyond the grave?_

"Oh, Erik, I hope so!" She rested her temple against his shoulder, breathing deeply and closing her eyes again. _If he were alive, he would have come after Erik long before now_. _Erik would never let someone best him, though_…_especially not someone like Marcel_.

Erik sighed heavily. "I won't let anything else happen." He held Marguerite's face, tilting it back so she was looking up at him. "Perhaps you should rest and collect yourself." He took her hands and began to stand up again, and Marguerite, wide-eyed, followed him into her bedroom.

"Erik, I haven't been awake for very long. I'm not…tired." She bit her lip. "Just weary."

He gave her a dark look that wasn't really intended for her. Not her, of course, but he could have killed _someone _that day. It had seemed so ineffectual in the past few years—there was no soprano whose path to fame he was trying to pave, ridding her road of any obstacles, even human lives. Marcel was the first person he had killed since the beggar who had been pulled from the lake and assumed to be the Opera Ghost. But now, he saw Marguerite's pain and felt dissatisfied, although he himself had eradicated the source of her agony. It didn't seem enough.

Unbeknownst to him, she saw the violence in his eyes. She had no knowledge of his intentions or his precise thoughts, but what she glimpsed filled her with dread. Yet Erik…she did not want to be without him now.

"The weariness will pass," he said, "if you but lie down for a moment. I will return."

Sudden panic arose over every other emotion beating in her breast. "Erik, _no!_" She reached out and grabbed his arm before he could leave the room. "Don't—don't leave me! _Please_. I can't be alone right now."

He turned back to her, narrowing his eyes. "Can you not spare the puerility for a few minutes?"

Marguerite sucked in her breath, not sure whether to be furious or utterly heartbroken. She took a few steps back from him; she ended up bumping into the bed. Only able to stare at him without making a sound, she forced her jaw to close. Thousands of reaction tumbled in her head like dice, and one was finally rolled.

"You…How could you…You…awful…" She grasped the bedpost and sat down on the bed. "You can't just speak to me that way! He hurt me because of _you_, Erik! Didn't you know? He knew my affections were not for him, and—" Her mouth quivered, and she felt nauseous again. She had let her tongue run away, and now there was pain on Erik's face she had caused. "Oh, God, Erik! I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said—please forgive me—!"

Erik was already berating himself for his own words, but that did not change his initial frustration. With a low growl, he slammed his fist into the doorframe. Hurt and confused, Marguerite's face contorted into further tears. Mistakenly believing she was the cause of his rage, she lay down on the bed, her head on the pillow and curling into a ball. She covered her face, not wanting to see Erik leave the room.

He did not; instead, he just watched her again, his temper at her cooling, but his bloodlust unsated. _Selfish bastard_, Erik thought to himself, approaching her.

"I'll stay," he said, though he was rather sure that now she would not want him anywhere near him. She did not respond, and he felt a twinge of fear of his own as his voice softened. "Marguerite…Don't cry."

"Erik…" His name was so sweet on her tongue, almost enough to remove the curse. "I need you. I need you so much, and I'm sorry. I'm a child—I can confess, I'm being so juvenile…" She stretched out her hand in a simple gesture of appeal. Erik took it, sitting on the bed beside her. His self-control at the moment astonished even himself.

"I'm here," he said, and he watched nearly every muscle in her body visibly relax as she stretched out slightly. It was so different from when she had first sustained Marcel's mad brutality. Now she knew he loved her; now he actually cared, actually _wanted _to keep her safe.

"Will you…will you lay here beside me?" Her eyes flickered away and her cheeks were pink. Still so proper?

Without even saying yes, Erik slowly lowered himself onto the mattress as she scooted away to make room for him. Once he stretched out on his back, she placed her arm across his chest and inched closer.

"I can feel your heart beating," she whispered, smiling slightly. "_You're _not a ghost."

Since he had not heard the conversation between Marguerite and Katie, the humor was lost on him. But he could have snorted ironically at her observation. Yes, she _would_ sense his heartbeat—pounding like a soldier going into battle, when in fact he was fighting against himself.

"Erik, might you sing for me?"

"If you think it will help," he said, shifting his weight slightly. When he opened his mouth and let his voice reign, he submitted himself to the music—his first, foremost, and eternal love.

_Child of the wilderness  
__Born into emptiness  
__You won't be lonely,  
__You won't have to fear the darkness,  
__I will be there for you,  
__Comfort and care for you_.  
_You won't be lonely_.  
_I will be your one companion_.  
_There's someone out in the world  
__Who has arms to hold you_.  
_You must have known  
__Your life's not lived alone  
__So forget your emptiness,  
__Child of the wilderness  
__You won't be lonely,  
__You will not live, you will not love alone_.

Marguerite sighed, her mind now completely at ease as they lay there, both lost in their own thoughts of the other. _I hope it's always like this,_ she thought, _the end of every day…just like this…_ Tomorrow it would become permanent.

Erik's next remark caused her to question his thoughts on the matter.

"Marguerite, it's not too late," he said, "if you can't go through with it."

"Through with what?"

"A life with me."

The next moment, Marguerite sat up, looking down at him crossly. For a moment, they watched each other's faces without speaking. Then, before Erik realized she was doing it, she snatched the mask off of him. He sat up and opened his mouth to rail and rage at her, but when he saw the taut muscles in her neck, he stopped himself. So she _was _afraid, was she? He stayed as he was, fiercely staring her down and not trying to hide himself this time.

She leaned forward and kissed his right cheek, his taught, carious skin, and then his forehead, and his other cheek. She kissed his chin, and finally his mouth, slowly, languidly, until she felt him lose the angry tension. He wove his fingers into her hair and kissed her back, turning the tables and bringing her to the brink of surrender.

"Erik," she whispered, knowing she had to tell him to stop, yet wanting to put it off as long as possible. Instead, it was he who pulled away slightly.

"You're breaking your own rules," he said.

"I…yes. I'm sorry…"

His eyes were fiery, his voice strained, as he said, "I hope you realize how lucky you are that I give a damn about you and your sense of decency." He smiled and moved away, taking his mask from where she had cast it aside and turning away from her to replace it. "Not to worry, my dear. I shall not have you going back on your own demands."

Marguerite's eyes brightened, and she, too, set her feet on the floor. "Erik, I have…an idea."

He raised an eyebrow, wondering what this could possibly entail.

"Take me back there," she whispered, taking his hands. "Take me back to—to where it happened. If you're there with me, maybe it won't look so awful."

The muscles of his face relaxed. "Are you sure?"

"That it will work? No. But I have to try _something_, haven't I?"

After a moment, he nodded in agreement, and soon they were in the boat, headed back from whence they had come.

* * *

The Vicomte sighed and refolded the letter. Tomorrow was a _terrible _time for Henri to come! They had no plans, and therefore no excuse to postpone the visit. Well, he really should help the poor fellow—they were friends, after all, and God knew he would probably feel the same way and take the same actions if he were in Henri's situation. Only, Henri was not so familiar with the lady _he _was pursuing, much less engaged to her. 

He returned to the parlor, where Christine was playing the piano and singing along. Years after her final opera performance, and still she was miraculous, though her vocal talents were far superior to her skill at the instrument. When their son cried, nothing soothed him like a song from his mother. Her husband was constantly in awe of her, and though her tunes sometimes drudged up memories he'd rather leave buried, he never discouraged her voice. When he came in looking rather irritated, however, Christine immediately ceased her playing.

"Raoul…Has something happened?"

"Nothing, really. Henri Laroche wishes to come tomorrow." He tilted her chin to place a light kiss on her lips, then sat down with a sigh on a chair close to the piano. Christine looked indignant.

"You haven't spoken with him in several months, and suddenly he's writing and constantly calling to have these private chats with you."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry if it irritates you. I feel rather obligated to help him."

"Is there something going on that I should—"

"No, not at all, darling," he said. "It's not even much cause for concern on _my_ part. He's looking for a young woman who seems to have slipped through his fingers. Apparently I'm his closest confidante in the matter." He closed his eyes, thinking he should not have said as much. He hadn't meant to remind Christine of how _she _had nearly slipped out of _his _life at one point, though doubtless he had just done that very thing.

Christine's eyebrows knitted together. "Do we know the woman?"

"Her name is Marguerite…something. Oh, yes, Gautier. Her father is the owner of the _Op_—" He stopped himself and glanced at Christine. Her face was definitely whiter than before. _Damn_. He had to shut up.

"Tell him to stop looking for her," she whispered.

"Why?" Raoul sat up a little straighter. "You know her?"

"I've met her several times," Christine said, her voice flat. She shook her head. "He mustn't find her."

"For the love of heaven, Christine, _why?_ What do you know about her?"

Her chocolate eyes were enormous. "She's in love with someone else, I can assure you. Tell Henri to give her up." _Or he will haunt us again, and our peace wouldn't have lasted very long_. She stood up from the piano. "I must check on Armande. He may be awake by now." With that, she left the room before Raoul could inquire further.


	35. Let the Spectacle Astound You

**A/N: Cliffhanger warning! Sorry, but otherwise this chapter would be too long. I am so excited to be posting this, an idea I've had for some time, and I had fun writing it.**

**It seems many of my loyal reviewers are no more, and I am saddened. I don't have a goal of how many reviews I want to get, but feedback on my story is really important to me! So if you read it, and you have a minute, _please_ review it! I crave to know what everyone thinks.**

**On another note…what was that again? Oh, now I remember—_I HAVE THE DVD!_**

Disclaimer: I've already said it…find other chapters if you must know. 

"There. You see?"

Erik followed her pointed finger to the floor, though he really didn't need the indication. His quick eyes took in the remnants, the buttons and bits of fabric, and also what Marguerite herself had neglected to notice—grooves where her fingernails had dug into the wooden floor. Marguerite's hand, feeling very small in his, strengthened its hold. Her face was paler than it was a moment ago, but her obdurate expression was doing a decent job of hiding her fear.

"This is where I first saw him," she said. "He was…hiding. I fell behind and just sat there, thinking I was losing you forever." She absently rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand, keeping herself still and standing, wanting to acclimate herself to this room and the memories, the horrid memories.

Erik himself was silently taking in the space. A part of his opera house and his domain, he had been here many times, of course. It held little significance until now; he tried to think how it must seem to Marguerite. Strange to imagine another man lurking in dark corners, the trap set and awaiting its prey.

When he glimpsed the mask and turban Marcel had worn, two separate thoughts rushed to his mind. Perhaps his presence was serving to placate _her _soul, but Erik felt no calmer than before. He half-wished Marcel was still alive, if only so he could serve up a different death for him—slower perhaps, something Erik would enjoy carrying out. It would, of course, be justifiable. Erik had never killed a woman—unless a few died when the chandelier crashed—and he certainly would not force one to surrender her body to his. He knew he had been accused of such actions, but the thoughts repulsed him. How many opportunities had been in his reach? If he had taken them, surely the de Chagny boy would be his child—and far less beautiful than his true parentage guaranteed. Yes, a death more tragic than drowning would not have been uncalled for in Marcel's case.

Yet the sight of the costume brought other memories to his mind. He remembered his years in Persia, the exotic palace at Mazenderan, where he had been a source of amusement, fascination, and fear by the Shah. The sultana had been so amused by Erik's hideousness, the glory of his voice, and his special flair for torture. He thought of Nadir and his son, who had actually adored him. Nadir…who had saved his life. It had been a long time since Erik had seen him, and he wondered what the Persian would think of recent events.

_Where are you, my friend? Have you gone on to your reward? _Erik hoped Nadir was with his son, if he had. He could not even see anything around him anymore, could feel nothing, as his mind wandered forward to another time—and another son. _Good lord, Christine, I hope the child looks like you_. The pain of regret…it was not quite as strong as it had been, was it? Ah, but it was there. Perhaps it would always be there. It was just something to live with.

The sensation of a hand gently placed upon his unmasked cheek brought him back to the present. He looked down into Marguerite's soulful gray eyes to see questioning sympathy—sympathy, from the woman he had been pitying minutes ago. Once again he rebuked himself. He couldn't think of Christine any longer. She was far away from him, and content. Marguerite was right beside him—and how could she love him so much?

* * *

The child was still sound asleep, and Raoul could no longer bear the unanswered question. When his wife emerged from the nursery, he was right there at the door. 

"Christine, what do you know?" he asked again.

She flushed. "It's really nothing, Raoul."

"Please. You know we keep no secrets from each other."

She sighed and closed her eyes. She knew; poor Raoul! Must she tell him she had seen Erik again? If only she could spare him the feeling of betrayal she knew he would experience.

"Well…" She was not quite sure where to begin. "As the daughter of the _Opera Populaire_'sowner, one would assume Mademoiselle Gautier had _carte blanche_ throughout the building." Raoul nodded, encouraging her to continue. "I should just say…well, she came to me at one of the New Year's balls. She approached me in the powder-room with some…disturbing news."

She finally met Raoul's eyes, and saw he knew exactly what she was about to say, and was attempting to both brace himself and refuse to believe. "Erik is alive—and still in his underground kingdom. And he was…having her search for me."

Now it was Raoul who closed his eyes. "It can't be."

"Oh, my darling," Christine said, coming closer and bringing her arms around him. "I'm afraid there is more."

"But what, may I ask, has this to do with Henri?"

"The night of the masquerade, she came to me again. Erik was—was making her ask me to—return to him."

Raoul stiffened. "Good God, Christine…what did you do?"

"I followed her there. I wanted to settle it forever." He stepped back from her, stunned and let down. She _knew _he would react that way! "I'm so sorry, Raoul. But I came back! You _must _know by now, my heart is completely and only _yours_."

"Did you see him?"

"At the lake, where he begged me to return. Of course I refused. Raoul, I felt such pity for him. He _is _only a man! But on the way down, Mademoiselle Gautier confessed she loves him."

"She _loves _him? How could she? How could anyone…?"

"Perhaps she is the bravest woman I've ever met," Christine said. "Perhaps she is the most insane. I _do _know that if she loves him, and if he has tried to return her love—as I _did _ask him to do—then she will not want Henri Larouche."

"Was this the last time you saw her?"

"Yes, and not since. Apparently no one else has, either?"

"No. But Christine, who knows what _he _could have done to her by now! He could have killed her…or worse."

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Well, no matter what, Henri has a right to know."

The brunette lifted her eyebrows so slightly. "Has he?" The Vicomte hesitated, thinking. "Raoul, you just _can't _tell him. He'll go after her, and I don't think she would want that. Erik didn't take her by force, if she's down there at all…and she may not be. Perhaps he still doesn't want her." Thinking, she chewed at the insides of her cheeks. "But it would have been a shame—his last chance at love." She took Raoul's hand, half-pleading. "I tell you, if she loves Erik…she will not want a man like Henri Laroche."

* * *

Marguerite and Erik were back on the other side of the lake, their own specters of the past forgotten—for the moment. Inspiration had struck him as they climbed into the gondola, and now he sat at his desk, rapidly scribbling down the music developing in his mind. Marguerite was reading _Don Quixote _aloud, laying full-length on the settee with Beatrice curled up beside her. So concentrated was Erik that he did not need silence. When he was finished putting the music on paper, he sat back to listen. 

"I so enjoy reading _Don Quixote_," Marguerite said, laying the book open on her stomach. "More than Don Juan."

Erik looked at her, almost haughtily. "You do not fancy yourself a man such as he, the greatest lover of them all?"

"There is no _love_ there," she said. "What is so appealing about a man who lives to conquer women? Courtship, of course, is something different—an attempt to win a lady's heart because the man feels the same way, that he wants to live out the rest of his days with her."

She sat up, keeping her finger in the book so she would not lose her place. Beatrice looked at her reproachfully and hopped to the floor, stretching. "But to have a heart devoid of affection, to seduce woman after woman just to prove he can or to find the one _worthy _of him? I think that man is the foulest creature." Her tone had grown quite harsh, and she softened it with a little smile. "Not to insult your opera, of course. I'm certain you've turned it into a work of unsurpassed beauty."

"You are too kind," he said dryly. He was startled when Marguerite actually laughed.

"As if I have any sort of right to criticize your subject material," she said. "Far be it from me to condemn the dictates of a genius' muse!" Erik relaxed slightly, and Marguerite knew her words had mollified his temper. She took up reading again, but stopped after several minutes.

"Oh, Erik, I've just had a thought. Let's go out for a stroll tonight after the opera, when everyone's gone and there won't be many in the streets. I can return to my room for my cloak and then…meet you at Rue Scribe?"

"It's highly improper for a young woman to be alone in such a dark street."

"Of course," she said, slightly amused. "Then I shall meet you at the lake." At the look he gave her, she added, "Yes, I'm going to go through that room again. I can do it alone now."

"So be it," he said, standing and moving to his organ, the new score in his hands. Marguerite held her breath, quivering in anticipation, but he only placed the papers on the instrument. "You mustn't see it _yet_, my dear," he said, not failing to notice her expression and posture. He still sat at the bench, however, and paused to think. "I shall play for you," he said. "Johann Sebastian Bach wrote exquisite pieces for the organ."

He proceeded to demonstrate, though the first notes sent Beatrice streaking toward the back rooms. Erik did not notice, his hands moving deftly over the keys, his feet expertly working the pedals. He played "Fantasia in C Minor" beautifully, but Marguerite could not help but yearn for her piano back at home. No, not at home—at her parents' house.

"You shall be overwhelmed with music by the end of the day," he said after finishing it and Marguerite had clapped dutifully. When he glanced at the clock, he added, "And perhaps we should leave now, if we are to remain unseen."

"Oh, but…I was about to read again. And it's the very best part, where they go to an inn—"

"Bring it along if you wish. Or remain here if you'd rather read than see—"

"No! Erik, I _must_ see that opera again if I have the chance." She nodded. "I'll bring it."

And so they left Erik's house again, returning to their same hidden place of the night before. Marguerite did not read, however. Instead, she eagerly watched the dancers running around onstage, the conductor fairly panicking, and lead singers demanding various liquids to lubricate their throats. She saw Madame Luvier, and wondered if Madame Giry was still around. She half-wanted to speak to the older woman again, to tell her—

"So _Don Quixote_ is not so very interesting," Erik purred in her ear. He had noticed she never opened the novel since they had been sitting. Marguerite looked down at it, clutched in her hand.

"Not like the stage." She gasped. "Erik, why do you not write an opera of _Don Quixote_? Think of it—the Phantom of the Opera, composing _opéra comique_! Oh, suppose you tried?"

Erik only gave her one of those looks of his which clearly indicated she had just said something markedly stupid. "It has never been my favorite story."

"Then…oh. Then why let me read it to you?"

"Because you bring it to life rather remarkably."

"My voice could never compare to yours."

"I suppose not," he said with the slightest bit of smugness about his mouth. "But you do well enough." She smiled, warm at the compliment, and read a bit more before the curtain rose.

"Thank you for indulging me," Marguerite said, her voice low. "You needn't stay if you dislike it. If you'd rather sneak around, or brood, or something else, by all means, I won't stop you."

"I've nothing left to do in preparation," he said. And then she was once again reminded that tomorrow she was to become a married woman. _Oh, Lord, I am not ready!_

She would adjust, surely. Unfortunately, now she could hardly pay attention to the opera. Hopefully Erik would not mind a bride with puffy eyes and sagging shoulders, for that's what he was going to get, for she would not be sleeping well that night. By the third act, she had a headache from constantly re-focusing her thoughts. When her mind yet again wandered, she blushed at where it had stumbled. She did not notice until she felt Erik's breath against her cheek.

"Do you find the ballet discomforting, my dear?" When she looked at him, he was not smirking, as he most likely would have done had he correctly guessed what she was thinking. As it was, it seemed he at least _suspected_. She only frowned at him, trying once again to concentrate. Had she been more attentive, she would have found the performance even lovelier than last night's. She thrilled at the drama, and moaned in envious despair at the divas' skills. She had to fight herself to keep from applauding when it was over.

"I'll go up and fetch my cloak," she whispered, "and then meet you at the shore."

"Wait for more of them to go," he said, gently gripping her arm to hold her back, "unless you want to be seen and recognized."

_Good heavens, Marcel's parents might be here! _She only realized it for the first time that very minute. She nodded and sat down again. A few moments later, Erik's arms came around her, and his chin rested on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and leaned back slightly, feeling both enamored and terrified, and beginning to wonder what might happen if they were seen. They would not be, of course; she trusted Erik enough with that.

"Go, but wait in your room a bit until it is clear," he murmured again, a few minutes later.

Halfway to the dormitories, Marguerite realized she had left the book in the hiding place up above the stage. She hesitated. It was probably safe, but…just in case, she ought to go fetch it. On the way back to the stage, however, she met Katie.

"Marguerite! What are you doing about? Have you come to celebrate with us?"

"Celebrate?"

"Tonight was the last performance of _Le Roi Riant_. I hope you haven't missed it? Your fiancé should have taken you!"

"I…" Marguerite was quite at a loss for words, and she was not sure why.

"Well, come along anyway!" Katie said, her eyes twinkling impishly behind the heavy purple eye shadow that matched the dancers' extravagant costumes. "None of us are going back to the dormitories yet. There's a marvelous party back behind the dressing rooms. You _must _come!"

Marguerite hesitated, biting her lip. Erik would be waiting. But then, she was getting married tomorrow! Why not take a little time this evening to enjoy herself in the company of other young women? Granted, there were sure to be men there, and not every person who worked for the opera house possessed the best of scruples. And if Erik found out…

Well, that would be just too bad for him. It had been so long since she had attended any kind of festive occasion, and _never _anything so informal as what she knew she was about to encounter. Perhaps it would prove a marvelous adventure, besides being merely entertaining. Anyway, Erik _did _tell her to wait a little while.

Finally she nodded and took Katie's offered hand, allowing a little giggle to slip from her throat as they hurried down the corridor. She would only be a few minutes.

A cacophony of raucous laughter, clinking tankards, belching, cheers, mock singing, and screeching fiddles met them as they made their way backstage. It was smoky, and Marguerite coughed fiercely when they came closer to the crowd. Katie was immediately seized for a lively dance. A heavy-lidded man in thick stage makeup shoved a bottle under Marguerite's nose, and she took it without thinking. He turned and went off with another dancer with violet-caked eyes, leaving Marguerite slightly baffled. She peered through the opening for a moment before tasting the liquid inside, instantly sputtering on the bitter taste.

"I'll take _that_, then!" laughed another girl who had been watching her. She wore no makeup, and had on a simple commoner's frock. Perhaps she was a seamstress or someone of that sort. She lifted the bottle from Marguerite's fingers. "Not to your liking, I see. Jean!"

"_Oui_, Laurette?" said a swarthy man with a wicked gap-toothed grin.

"This girl needs a dance partner. I see you can be spared."

"With pleasure, mademoiselle." Without waiting for her response, he grabbed Marguerite around the waist and seized one of her hands, whirling her around the room until she thought she would faint with the thrilling dizziness. Somewhere inside her, laughter bubbled out. This was turning into an evening quite like none other! She let herself sink into the squealing fiddle and squawking accordion. Normally she would have compared the music to Erik's and been repulsed, but tonight—just for these scant minutes—she would lose herself in it. She had the rest of her life to hear the ecstasy that emerged from Erik's fingertips.

Once the twirling dance had spun out the last thought from her mind, she felt another tugging on the back of her dress. Somehow she managed to get Jean to stop dancing. It was Katie, flushed and perspiring, her eyes wide and scandalized. She leaned close to whisper—as best she could amid the noise—in Marguerite's ear.

"Come with me! Pierre and Luc have got absinthe a few rooms back."

"No, I couldn't!"

"_Please!_ I've never had it before, and you must try it with me."

Katie did not let Marguerite form a response before hauling her off to a darker, smaller room holding only the said Pierre and Luc.

Absinthe was a beverage that spanned social classes, but Marguerite had never tried it, or her parents, as far as she knew. She watched, hypnotized, as the boys poured out the green liquid into glasses, deftly placing the special spoons across their rims and topping each with a sugar cube. Marguerite wondered how they managed to collect all this paraphernalia, and how they knew so much about its proper use in honoring the Green Fairy, as the drink was known. The emerald coloring, however, distracted her from most rational thought.

Erik's eyes.

Katie was standing just as still and quiet, her arm still looped through Marguerite's. They blinked as the boys poured cold water over the sugar cubes, the sweetness dissolving and dripping down into the absinthe, turning it a cloudy green. They looked up at the girls, smiling.

"Are you ready?"

In a few moments, all four of them were seated around the table, grasping their drinks. Marguerite had very little personal experience with alcohol, save for some glasses of wine at mealtimes. It was unusual to dislike it, but she did.

Ah, but the Green Fairy cast her magic spell over the Phantom's bride-to-be, and the sugar mixed with the flavors of the alcohol, wormwood, and anise captured her. As instructed, she drained the glass before it got too warm, coughing between timid sips and gulps. The boys laughed when she and Katie were shuddering after it was fully transferred to their stomachs.

Katie pulled a grotesque face and pushed the glass away. "Ergh. Awful."

"I rather liked that," Marguerite said.

Chuckling, Pierre held up one of the slotted spoons, another sugar cube perched on top of it. "Again, then?"

* * *

"Oh, Marguerite, I'm so sorry!" Katie whispered to the inebriated woman slumping in her chair. "I shouldn't have gotten you into this." 

Marguerite didn't answer, but the ballerina's words floated through the alcoholic mist of her mind as if from a great distance. She just sighed and mumbled something indecipherable. Pierre and Luc were also a bit drunk, but held their liquor with much more experience than either of the girls. They just chuckled at Katie and poked fun at Marguerite.

"To hell with you both, then," Katie grumbled, standing up. To Marguerite she said, "You'll need help getting to your room. And the third floor, at that!" She shot a glance at the boys, but they made no offer of assistance. She half-dragged Marguerite to a standing position.

Some people become loud and vulgar when they are intoxicated. Others amplify their bad habits, and others simply become angry. Still there are those who grow more and more docile and quiet as they become less and less aware of their surroundings. Marguerite fit into this latter category rather nicely. Though she had great trouble remaining on her feet, she was perfectly content to let Katie guide her through the opera house to where it connected with the dormitories.

"Lem…uh…let…mmm…lemme sit…" she muttered, sliding to a sitting position at the bottom of the stairs to the second floor.

"But Margie," Katie said, "you've only to go up these two flights and you'll be back in your room. You can sleep in your bed and rest as long as you like!"

"I wanna rest…here…"

It took a few more minutes of persuading before Marguerite would stumble up the staircase. Few people would be dedicated in so helping a friend of only a couple of days, but Katie was rather fond of Marguerite—and felt excessively guilty. After traveling up seven steps in three full minutes, she encouraged Marguerite to crawl the rest of the way on her hands and knees.

Not a moment too soon, they reached the third floor landing, and Marguerite was hauled to her feet again. She smiled inanely and snickered. It was anyone's guess what she found so very amusing. Around the dim corner they went, and there was the door to her room.

"See?" Katie whispered. "In a minute"—she grasped the doorknob—"you'll be safe in—"

Katie's words were interrupted by her own little shriek when she opened the door.

Erik was standing by the fireplace, his eyes blazing furiously.


	36. Don't Vex A Phantom

**A/N: Avateine Black, you get a chapter dedication because I took the title from your review! And I want it on a T-shirt as well. This is _such _an intense chapter. Irrational, pissed-off Erik is always fun to write!**

**Am I the only person alive who does _not_ like the deleted scene on the DVD? I'm so glad they took it out of the movie.  
****Exams are halfway done, which means closer to summer, which means more writing time! I've been on a high since I took my English exam on Thursday and my prof actually stopped me from leaving to say I "write very nicely." I immediately wondered what he would think of me writing fanfiction. Anyway, why am I sharing this? Oh, well!**

**Oh, heck, here are a few review replies:**

**Nade-Naberrie: **Wow, what happened to you being both R/C and E/C? Honestly, I've read too many Mary-Sue parodies to create a scene where Erik must actually choose between Marguerite and Christine. I hope I haven't given too much away! There's more interesting stuff to come. But I do have to say that the more I read (both the "real" novels and the fanfiction) and the more I watch the movie, the more I believe Christine never really loved Erik. Maybe that's just me.

**ModestySparrow09: **You are a hypocrite! You better have an update out soon. What the heck is going on with Claire? And her father? And Aubrey? Oh, yeah, and Erik too! Come on, I have to find out…Grrr.

**Mia: **I was kind of surprised myself when I got the idea for drunk Marguerite, but I thought it was both amusing and offered great opportunities for more conflict. Plus, as I said before, pissed-off Erik is fun to write, and I needed another excuse! There was too much fluff going on.

**To my new reviewers, you have made my day. And to my faithful old reviewers, of course you realize I'm not really talking about you when I complain about never getting feedback on my story, right? —hugs— And **artgem04**, I know you'll review no matter what! One week and we'll be setting Gerry-traps around NYC! Squeeee!**

**MUST READ: Chapter 37 will be up _very _soon after this. Once you've finished this one, you'll be grateful! —wink—**

Disclaimer: You really should know this by now.

"M-monsieur?" Katie whispered, now paper-white and trembling. She recognized the man's mask and would have fainted dead away if Marguerite had not been depending on her.

"Erik," Marguerite murmured, her words badly slurred. "H-how…mm." She closed her eyes and swayed a bit, leaning against the doorframe. "I…was going…to meet you…"

Katie stared. Erik? She _knew _this—this man? Katie glanced back and forth between the two of them, quite unable to believe what she was seeing. Marguerite took a step forward just as Erik did, and she almost fell to her knees before he caught her at the waist. He picked her up and dumped her rather rudely on the bed. She groaned, looking at him indignantly.

"_You're _not a china doll I'm afraid to break," he hissed. He then whirled on Katie, who quickly thought twice before running away. "What happened to her?"

Katie blinked, surprised—not by the question, but the beauty of the voice which had spoken them. She had expected something harsh and cruel, the voice of Lucifer himself. This man's voice was unlike any she had heard before, passionate but cultured, and, above all, imposing. She was even more terrified after hearing it. He had to repeat the question, and was none too pleased to do so, which made him sound even angrier.

"She had…too much to drink, monsieur."

Erik looked at her with half-closed lids, perturbed. "I can see _that_, you little idiot."

"W-we were drinking absinthe, monsieur. It's the last night of the opera, you see, and there's a party down behind the stage. Two of the stage hands—" She stopped and clenched her teeth, realized she had come too close to sentencing Pierre and Luc to their deaths.

Marguerite moaned again, turning on her side and trying to sit upright. "Erik…we going for…a walk?"

His head snapped back to look at her. Katie was still completely baffled, not quite comprehending what was going on. Just what was it that existed between her new friend and the man she recognized as the Opera Ghost, a being she had feared for years?

"I'm so sorry this happened," she said softly, approaching Marguerite on the bed, her hand stretched out to smooth the older girl's frazzled hair. If this madman was angry enough, what would he do to her new friend? Should anything terrible happen to Marguerite, it would be her fault, Katie thought miserably.

"Leave her!"

She jumped back, tense and ready to flee, yet thinking it would be far worse for her if she did. Marguerite was still trying, slowly and stubbornly, to sit up. She flinched at Erik's shout.

"Don't yell so, Erik," she murmured. "The…it's a small room…" She chuckled, once again for no apparent reason. "We were…celebrating." She hiccupped and laughed out loud as she finally succeeded in getting herself in something resembling an upright posture. She tried to swing her legs around and get off the bed, but Erik moved toward her and pushed her back down.

"You're in no condition to get up," he said.

Marguerite looked with slightly crossed eyes, her enunciation worsening. "Is this a-any w-way to treat your bride-to-be?"

Katie gasped and brought both hands to her face in shock. Erik turned and gave her a look as though he were seeing her for the first time. He began to walk in her direction, and she backed away, right through the open doorway. He slammed the door on her gawking face and returned to Marguerite.

"That wasn't very nice," she said.

"Well," Erik said with dangerous calm, "what have you gotten yourself into now?"

"I…I don't know…I just want to sleep."

Erik snorted. If she had any idea how sick she would feel in the morning, she would never want to wake up. In the back of his mind, he wondered why she had actually gone and done something so idiotic as get herself intoxicated on absinthe. Several ideas ran through his mind, and he was quite unhappy with every single one of them. In fact, they only increased his aggravation.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked, his voice devoid of warmth.

"I've never had such fun," she said. Looking away with red, droopy lids, she added, "I…I don't 'member ev'thing." She turned her face back up to Erik. "I was dancing. It was loud and…it was loud."

"How perfectly lovely," Erik said, crossing his arms and leaning against the closed door.

She closed her eyes. "It wasn't…like my Erik's music…And my partner…wasn't like Erik, either…"

Erik's eyes narrowed. And was that a good thing?

Her words floundered and faded away. Her eyes flew open, growing very wide, and she grasped the bedcovers, her mouth working soundlessly. Erik felt a stab of concern, and then he saw her face change color slightly in the dim light. Thinking quickly, he ducked down and grabbed the chamber pot—luckily empty—from under the bed. He knocked the lid to the floor with a loud _clank_ and shoved the bowl into Marguerite's hands just in time. She bent over the porcelain container and released what little had been in her stomach. She kept head down, but her shoulders began to shake.

He could only watch her for a few moments, wondering if this sort of thing had happened to her before—or often. Perhaps it was good for him to find out, _before _they were wed, what she was like when drunk. Though he was not quite sure what he was supposed to do with this newfound knowledge.

Jealous rage and insane betrayal had filled him when he waited for her at the shore. He took the risk to go into her room, and then had felt even worse. Where else had she gone? Immediately he thought she was running away, filled with uncertainty and fear at the closeness of marriage to such a _monster_ on the horizon. Perhaps Christine would have also sought out the solace of alcohol, had Erik not let her go. He still wouldn't condemn Marguerite—if she hadn't already promised to stay with him. But she had, and so he did.

When that English girl brought her back to her room, relief had covered him—for a few seconds, until he realized what condition she was in. It didn't help that one of the nosy ballet rats had seen him up close and heard his voice. Hopefully the stories of his murderous rages were enough to keep her mouth shut this time. Now he was fighting the urge to hold Marguerite and comfort her until she could sleep off the effects of the absinthe. However, he was infuriated and mortified, and he let it reign, though under some veneer of self-control. Was this going to be a habit? What was he to do with a drunken wife he'd already become attached to? There was no way he could just let this slide. She had to be taught a lesson.

Erik began to realize the odor in the room was becoming oppressive, and he went to open the window, letting in a chilly evening breeze. He turned to see Marguerite lifting her head, her eyes glassy.

"I wanna die," she mumbled. "I…I feel…" She closed her eyes, tears leaking through. He moved to put the chamber pot on the floor, replacing the lid. "I'm sorry, Erik, don't…don't be…don't be angry with me."

Everything was wavy, almost smoky, through her vision. At some point Katie had left, but Marguerite didn't remember it. She recalled having fun, dancing to the loud peasant music, and the green…the beautiful green. Before she knew it, she was back in her room and Erik was towering over her. If she had been sober, she would have known better—and been afraid. At the moment, she was too sick to realize it. The blissful stupor had quickly turned into piercing nausea and a strange helplessness. She just wanted it to go away, and she groaned and muttered other unintelligible sounds, wiping at her wet eyes and mouth like a fussy child. It didn't take away what was bothering her.

"Please, Erik…" She reached out her hand as she had done before, needing his presence and his closeness, but he did not touch her. She closed her eyes and sighed, dropping back onto the bed. Her head landed on the pillow and she shivered, the room now unpleasantly cold. Her mind was about to be completely overtaken, and somewhere far, far away she heard a window shut. When something warm was draped over her, she didn't even notice.

* * *

The next thing she knew, Marguerite was being roughly shaken awake. When she opened her eyes, it was almost impossible to tell she had done so, for the room was inky dark. Was it actually morning? A throbbing, excruciating headache greeted her, and she felt as though she had just come down with influenza. Before she could come to terms with consciousness, she felt herself picked up and hauled out of the room. She gasped and writhed at first, but when she looked up and saw it was Erik, she stopped in shock. 

"What are you…?" She couldn't finish the question. It hurt too much to speak. Then an idea hit her, and it was none too comforting, not with her in this condition and Erik in his mood. _Dear God, are we married?_ Bringing her left hand up to her face, she saw it was bare. So, where was he taking her? To her surprise, once they entered the opera house, he took back stairwells and corridors, always the upward course.

Up and up he carried her, all the while saying nothing. Each one of his heavy footfalls echoing in her head. She scrunched up her face and covered her eyes with one hand, holding to Erik with the other, but it did little to brace against the pain. At the bottom of one twisting iron staircase, he put her down, only to take her hand and drag her up with him. It was very possible to be sick again, as she had remembered doing so the night before—and flushed when she thought of it. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before; she had never done such a thing, and couldn't even remember half of it. Erik should have never seen her like that. What must he think of her now?

She was breathless when they came to the landing, but Erik didn't stop. He burst through another door, leading out to the predawn air, pulling her through the open doorway after him. Still in her dress from yesterday, Marguerite shuddered immediately. She blinked, taking a few seconds to realize they were on the rooftops of the _Opera Populaire_. He let go of her, but she struggled to keep herself on her feet and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Erik took her wrists and forced her to look up at him.

The brutal chill in those green orbs filled her with dread, and she made the mistake of turning her head away.

"You cannot look upon me now?" he asked. "What is this, my dear? Is it your typical wedding-day nerves? Or is it all-out terror and regret?"

"Stop," she said, her voice small.

"It's too late for that now!"

She tried to look at him again, but his expression was so terrible, and his shouting made her head ache even more.

"Too late! _Look!_" She fully expected him to remove his mask before her, but instead he clamped his hands on her shoulders and spun her around, away from him. Perhaps he would snap her neck, she thought. It would be far too easy to do so as he turned her head so she was seeing the vastness of Paris. In the distance, the sky was just beginning to lighten. If she had been viewing it of her own free will, Marguerite would think it the most beautiful, romantic thing she had ever seen. As it was, she just wanted to get away—the light was burning her eyes and her brain, but Erik would not let her turn from it.

"Look at it," he snarled. "This is the last sunrise you will ever see. Today you will bind yourself to me, and consign yourself to the underworld for the rest of your life!"

"Erik, please." His voice had not its usual soothing effect this morning, and it was being hissed into her ear, his breath brushing her skin.

"Can you bear the thought, Marguerite? I must admit, I have little to offer a bride. Have you tried to drown your sorrows and the agony of thinking to the future? Ah, but you have disappointed _me _as well!"

"I just—"

"I would think to anticipate a certain level of respect from you," he went on, "but your actions of last night rather disproved it. What am I to do with you, Marguerite?"

Stunned at this complete change in Erik and her good sense not fully restored yet, Marguerite broke away from him and tried to run back inside. In only a few steps he had grasped her arm again and hauled her back around to face him.

"Tell me," he snarled, "is it inherent in women to lie and deceive? Are you _all_ little vipers who seek only what you can gain from a man before moving on to the next! Do inform me, my dear, I'm so very _eager _to know!"

Marguerite did the one thing she had never done in front of him. She screamed with all her lungpower, until he cut her off with a hand to her mouth. Even then, she struggled and clawed at it, panic welling up, until finally he loosened his grip. This time, she dashed to the base of a stone angel, panting. She stopped and clenched her eyes shut, the world whirling around her as though she had been physically spun on a violent carousel.

"_Damn you_, Erik! _Damn _you! It was a bloody stupid mistake!" She groaned and brought her palms to her temples, her own words reverberating agonizingly in her head. There was a foul taste in her mouth, and her vision blurred and swam with tears.

"I wasn't trying to escape you," she said, sitting down and holding her stomach. Her speech was much slower and quieter, but Erik heard it. She felt braver about reprimanding him when he wasn't touching her. "But I will if you keep acting like _him!_"

Erik knew exactly who she meant, and it was a stinging slap in the face.

Marguerite brought her knees up to her chin, leaning against the frigid stone. "I didn't do very much thinking, I know. But what are you really upset about? That I danced with another man? That I made a little bit of merriment for myself? That I did it without _you?_" Her eyebrows scrunched together ever so slightly, giving her a wounded puppy look. "I don't believe that's the proper attitude for a gentleman."

"If it's a _gentleman_ you want," he said, "you might as well leave right now."

Marguerite stood up slowly. Her head felt as though it were connected to her shoulders by a very thin thread, and she was going to lose it any minute. It hadn't been worth it, really, especially considering the pain she was feeling now, both physical and emotional. Yet she thought Erik was being _slightly _unreasonable, and she was still smarting from his accusations. Her wrists hurt where he had gasped them so tightly.

"Do you think I have deceived you?"

He only stared at her, trying to intimidate. A year since she had met him, and he still didn't have to try. But he was at a distance, and it was much easier to argue with him that way. Waiting for him to speak, she held one of her hands up in front of her face; it was shaking tremendously. She lowered it, wondering why he still said nothing.

"Erik? Tell me how I have been unfaithful." Still not a word. "Would you begrudge me a friend? Don't you remember I lost everything? It's true, I was foolish, and perhaps I should show you more respect than to do something as immature as that again. But I had fun, Erik, and it was the first time I'd been with a number of people all at once, with not one of them judging me."

She wiped her eyes. "I'm just glad you're taking your wrath out on me than Katie, or your precious opera house." She smiled, and even her lips trembled. That she was still standing upright surprised even her. "Yes, I know that music and this opera house combined are your primary concern. Christine comes second. _Mon dieu_, I just now realized how much the thorn from _that _rose is still embedded in your skin."

She shrugged. "Third place—better than nothing at all, I suppose."

Erik was looking as though there were a million different things he wanted to say and couldn't decide what to say first. He was furious, surprised, wounded, desperate, and demanding.

"Perhaps we've _both _been deceived," she said, "if you want to put it that way, though I really don't know how _she_ deceived you. She never seemed to _act _as though she loved you, when she didn't, which would have been deceptive, indeed. But if you think I've done it to you, I'm sorry, for it was never my intention. Erik, if we both want to, if we trust each other…we can help each other heal."

Marguerite closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She approached him on shaky knees, forcing herself to look into his face. She was a foot away from him when she stopped; his expression was expectant.

"And would you like to know something? I _do_ want a gentleman."

That said, she stepped past him, through the doorway and down the stairs. He never stopped her, and he didn't turn to see her go.


	37. Two Different Sets of Plans

**A/N: All right, I'm not studying for my last final, I'm giving you the quick update I promised! I hope you're damn happy! (You all know I love you, right?)  
The responses I got from the last chapter were amazing! Thank you all so very, very much. And I'm glad to know other people out there aren't raving about the DVD's deleted scene. AND I've finally realized just how much everyone absolutely adores pissed-off Erik! —gets idea, cackles evilly— Should Erik kill Henri? Personally, I think he's more annoying than Raoul, but that could be just me.**

**Here are some review replies, can't help it (and new reviewers! Thank you!)**

**Fighting-4-freedom: **Oh, yes, so hot. If a guy actually treated me that way, I would never stay with him, but in literature (if you can call fanfiction "literature") it's just…well…sexy. A passionate man sexy (and in real life too, actually). There's no other word for it.

**Anonymous:** I've read a bit on absinthe, and supposedly its horrible reputation is actually a little unfair. But it's got such an amazing story behind it…and it's green…and it's fun to write about! And the deleted scene? Yes, the smoke! It was insane and _very _fake! I didn't like the singing, either.

**LynnP:** Raoul? A threat to Erik? Hehe well this chapter really should answer your question.

**Surf with music: **Are you talking about the artist Toulouse-Lautrec? (I think that's how you spell it.) That exhibit is mentioned on the cover of _Smithsonian_ magazine, and I want to see it—You are SO lucky!

**Nade-Naberrie:** I don't care how humbled you are, don't stop reviewing—they make me happy, hee hee! Did I get too crazy with the symbolism in that last chapter? I don't usually intend to create symbols—they just sort of fall into place.

**ModestySparrow9:** Erik in Las Vegas…oh, the possibilities…I could come up with a parody based around that, but with the comedic geniuses already writing on this website, I dare not even attempt it!

**Mook: **Yes, if I were Christine, I would have stayed with him, but I STILL would never forget that the man has killed people. Tread carefully around the Phantom!

**Avateine Black:** His irrationality is amusing, until you find a _punjab lasso wrapped around your throat!_ MUA HA HA HA! —cough— whoops, sorry about that.

**LittleViperPhan:** If my story has earned the admiration of a "usually strict" E/C-er, then my work here is done. But the story isn't!

**LenisVox:** Your response to my review of YOUR story had me laughing! OF COURSE the one consolation about the "No One Would Listen" scene is the presence of the Don Juan pants.—drools uncontrollably, passes out, wakes up and goes to mop floor, realizes she drooled on carpeting, lays down some paper towels instead— My mind should not be allowed to dwell upon the Don Juan pants, it's probably bad for my health. "In your mind you've already succumbed to me…" tee-hee.

**Artgem04: **How much do you feel like an evil scientist right now? Except we don't want to take over the world, we just want to make an army of Gerry clones. Oh, wow…—drools some more, runs out of paper towels— Of course, NYC will be awesome since it's my first time, but if we manage to capture ourselves a Gerry…hee hee just what do you bait a Gerry-trap with, anyway?

Disclaimer: If I owned it, I could afford a copy of Susan Kay's _Phantom_, but I don't, so I can't.

Marguerite hurried down the twisted, rickety staircase as quickly as her shaky legs could possibly allow her. Her heart pounded with the effort, and strong trepidation. She had plans of her own, but Erik was so unpredictable, he might end up interfering. Would he follow her? Would he again rage and fume against her, call her names, demand that she leave him forever? She swallowed back her queasiness, hoping none of it would be true. After she stepped off the last stair, she waited until the echoing stopped, but she heard no other sound.

_Just keep going_, she thought. Somehow, through the twists and turns of stone and wood, she found her way back to the dormitories. The door of her room was still open, somehow an eerie sight. When she went inside, though, she saw Katie in a robe and nightgown, standing by the window with wet, red-rimmed eyes. She only got a brief glimpse of the dancer, though, before she was nearly suffocated.

"Marguerite!" Katie gasped in a voice filled with tears, her arms tight around Marguerite's neck. Significantly taller, she had to bend over slightly, and accidentally put a little too much weight into the embrace. "I came to see if you were all right," she sobbed, "and…oh, you were gone, and your things were still in the wardrobe, and I thought he'd _killed _you! I feel awful about everything. If I hadn't dragged you to the party, it would never have happened, and—"

"Hush," Marguerite said, gently, pushing Katie away. "Forget the entire thing."

"Oh, but you look terrible…and you're positively trembling all over!"

"I imagine it's just the…the aftereffects of that absinthe. I must pack and prepare to leave."

The ballerina's eyes went even wider. "You're leaving today?"

"I assure you, I will not be far. I'll come and visit sometime." She began to remove the modest amount of clothing from the wardrobe.

"Oh, do, please! That is, if you can possibly forgive me for the way I was acting last night. Usually Pierre and Luc are not so awful. They can be rather sweet, but when they started laughing at you, I could have just…" She exhaled sharply out of her nose and shook her head. "They wouldn't lift a _finger _to help! Not that I'm angry about having to help you come back up—" She stopped herself, her countenance concerned, as if she was about to say something she knew she should not have.

Marguerite met those hazel eyes a little more coldly than she had intended.

"I _can't_ just let you go without asking…"

Marguerite sighed, realizing she had nothing to put the clothing in. Katie offered a valise, which she hurried back to her own room to fetch. Unfortunately for Marguerite, it did not take her mind off of the question she was so dying to ask.

"Marguerite? Last night…well, you know you were a bit inebriated. Did you recognize the man who was in here when…when we came back?"

"Certainly."

"But he is—"

Marguerite stood up straight from her packing and looked Katie full in the face again. "Be very, very careful. You tread on rather unsteady ground." The younger girl's jaw dropped open ever so slightly, forming a look of sad confusion. "I'm sorry, Katie. I desire no animosity between us, but you are not to speak of the Opera Ghost. He is a man, that man you saw last night, and I will defend him to my death."

"But I have seen him before," Katie persisted. "A voice as beautiful as Paradise, and dangerous as Hell! You seemed to know him well, and you—you called yourself—his bride-to-be."

Marguerite clenched her fists. _How stupid of you, Marguerite! Next time you're drunk, keep your mouth shut_. For no reason did she have to reveal that information to Katie, however it occurred. She had hoped to avoid it altogether. There was no going back at this juncture, however, so confession was the only reasonable course.

"Because I am. Or at least, I was supposed to be, unless last night significantly changed things." At a lift of her eyebrows, Marguerite wondered if Katie thought she had saved her from a fate worse than death. Almost the opposite, really. "I may have lost his trust because of my stupidity last night."

"How?" Katie asked, almost breathless. "How did it all come about?"

Marguerite paused to think before smiling. "It is a long, complicated story," she said. "I'm afraid you will never know." She picked up the valise, patted a stunned Katie on the arm, and left, hoping her exit would be just as unobtrusive as her entrance.

* * *

Damn. He was never going to get things right. 

Erik was rooted to the spot, listening to Marguerite's footsteps fading down the stairs, wondering whether to pursue her or not. Her startling comment still rang in his ears, and he was still unable to believe it. _I _do _want a gentleman_. So what was she doing with him to begin with? What had she obtained from him, and where was she going from there? She said herself she had lost everything, and now she was just going to walk out on him? Nothing about her made any sense.

His mind was still twisted in wrath at her actions of last night, and her questions had been like irritating pinpricks that grew to stab wounds. He _did _feel betrayed, though not entirely sure why, and he felt unable to put any more confidence in her. Seeing Marguerite stumbling into her room, cringing beneath the self-induced pain and stupor, was more distressing than he wanted to admit. It was the unexpected show of weakness in her, perhaps.

He had seen her in such agony before, but it was the fault of another, and the memories recalled of the event. None of it was anything he could blame on her, nor did he want to. But this! Was she so miserable she had to do some kind of damage to herself? If she remained with him, would she have to drink herself into a trance every day to make it bearable? It bruised his ego to think it, certainly, but he also wanted to believe she was stronger than that.

Hadn't she proven that already, several times over?

Erik wandered to the very edge of the rooftop, peering over the stone barrier to the streets below, but there were not many people out. He turned his eyes back to the horizon, the sun just beginning to declare that the day had arrived. Its full glory was yet to be seen, but the few clouds that floated above it were already painted in the grays, purple, and orange of morning. Once again, he was seeing it entirely alone.

It had taken a certain amount of strength to leave him before, he realized, when she loved him so intensely, and he had tried not to care. She refused to sacrifice herself blindly, nor would she sacrifice her principles for _anything_. Not even him, after she declared to want him so very much. No, a lack of strength was not the issue. She had withstood much in her youth, more than he would have wished on her—nothing, of course, compared to his own life. Thank God for that.

Marguerite was not some stunningly beautiful goddess, excruciatingly tempting and ultimately unattainable. Nor was she a cursed being from the underworld, with a past full of countless tortures and heartbreaks which had left her permanently disfigured _inside_. No, she was human—neither and both. She was a lovely, caring, stubborn _woman_, filled with the uncertainties and paradoxes that come from being human.

And she was _not _in third place.

_Damn you, Erik! It was a bloody stupid mistake!_

If that's all there was to it, then he had just let her leave him again, under false pretenses on either side.

_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies_.

Had Christine realized how much those words, hastily and angrily spoken, had affected him? For years he had carried their burden on his shoulders. That night she spoke them, it had made him first aware of it, knowing she was correct. Even now, those words were still sinking in, and they were as true as ever.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked himself. Sometimes—more than sometimes—his pride was nothing but a set of heavy chains keeping him from what he wanted, holding him down.

Normally, he would have known, deep within, that Marguerite would be more than willing to forgive him if he went after her. This time, however…surely her patience would have run out. _Mon dieu_, he thought, if a mistake was all that it was, he _had _been no better than Marcel. His nails dug into the cold stone before he hurried back inside with a sweep of his cape.

He took less care in going through the _Opera Populaire _than usual, and with the dormitories, he had to be exceptionally careful. Rarely had he ever ventured inside, for before Christine, he had never had a reason. Even when he was the Angel of Music, he gave her privacy in the dormitories, particularly since she had several roommates. Her dressing room in the opera house itself was just fine as a meeting-place. Marguerite, however, could not possibly have been placed there, so entering her room was much trickier.

It was all for naught. When he arrived, the door was closed, but from sight of the interior, he would have never known she had ever been there. The armoire was cleared out, the bed was smooth, and there was not a hair on the nightstand, not a single sign of previous life. A sinking feeling formed in the pit of Erik's stomach such as he had never known before. Who ever heard of _third _chances? Breathing through clenched teeth, he surveyed the room once more before looking out the window. No familiar shape walked down the Paris streets. She could have gone in a different direction.

_Beatrice_, he thought. Marguerite would not leave without her cat, would she?

Cautiously he went back down the stairs and through one of his secret passageways, designed for him and himself alone, dark and freezing, but never suspected. He went through another trapdoor and eventually came back to the shore. He heard no other footsteps, no signs that he was not alone down there. His boat was right where he left it, but did that mean anything? He got aboard and deftly steered himself back to his home. Rarely was it with such purpose in mind.

What greeted him back in his cavern was…nothing. Even Beatrice, who had grown to welcome him in only two days' time, was nowhere to be seen.

Erik was just about to raise his hands to destroy something when he heard a doorknob turn, hinges creak, and then footsteps. No, it couldn't be. Marguerite stood at the doorway to the corridor, still pale and shaking, with bloodshot eyes, but he believed he had never seen her look more beautiful. She leaned against the doorframe, holding Beatrice and stroking the silky fur, and he could swear he heard the purring from where he stood.

After a few more moments of searching, he found his voice. "Have you come to take her back with you?"

"Back where?" Marguerite asked.

"Wherever you're planning on going."

She shrugged. "I'm already there."

He slowly exhaled, knowing there were several things that needed to be said, things she wanted to hear. "Last night was just a mistake? Nothing more?"

She nodded slowly. "At last you believe me. I just wanted to be a little reckless…and it got out of hand. But you shouldn't have behaved like…Marcel. Because you're not."

_She'll never know the worst I've done_, he thought. _She will never, ever know_. _That's all over_. Perhaps.

"I don't know what you were thinking, Erik. I promised I wouldn't leave you, and if I made you believe otherwise, I'm sorry." She started when Beatrice wriggled out of her arms to land on her paws. She walked over to Erik's feet and stared up at him. He actually ignored the cat, and instead approached Marguerite, gazing down at her from his towering stature.

"You said you wanted a gentleman."

"That's right. You'll have to be a gentleman to me, Erik. Can you bear it? Oh, I know you can—I've seen it before."

Then he could. In answer, he said, "You're not third place."

Her eyes softened, still unblinking. "Prove it." He frowned, obviously wondering how. "Every day, Erik, any way you can, be it large or trivial." She paused, then said, "For instance…let me watch a sunrise anytime I want."

His fingers twitched, but he didn't touch her. "Of course." Dear God, he hoped she didn't think he had really meant what he told her on the rooftop. He inwardly begged her to smile. She looked too serious, too rebuking, almost angry.

"Have I passed your tests, Erik? When will they be finished?" She saw the muscles working in his neck and knew she had struck a nerve somewhere.

"It's in my nature," he said. "I can't tell you it will never happen again."

"Yes, I can see how that might be. But have I been constant enough? Have I made too many errors, as a human being is bound to do once in a while? Erik, there's not a single man I would consider leaving you for. There's not another man in the world anything like you."

He snorted. That much was true, anyway.

"And I mean that in the best possible way." When she saw the side of his mouth rise up halfway into a grin, her heart was warmed, and she smiled back, widely. Silence drifted in the air, the dripping and lapping of water making its own music, comforting and not awkward.

"You didn't have a chance to sleep much last night," Erik said finally. "Perhaps now would be the best opportunity."

Marguerite waved her hand. "I'm wide-awake now," she said, "and I don't know if I could rest any. I'll just sleep tonight." At the look in Erik's eyes, she softly choked on her own breath. "Oh." She blinked several times, her eyes rapidly sweeping around for a place to land. "Well, I…perhaps now _would _be the best time to take a nap." Stiffly she turned around and went back into her bedroom, leaving Erik to work on the composition he had begun the day before.

* * *

"Please do be reasonable." 

"I _am _being reasonable! This is the best explanation I could come up with, and I've thought of nothing else since then."

Raoul thought of his wife's warning. Marguerite Gautier really had to be a madwoman if she loved Erik the way Christine claimed. Perhaps his hold on the woman was stronger than he'd had on Christine, if that was at all possible. No, Christine believed it to be genuine, and best of luck if it was. Although, Raoul just could not shatter his poor friend's hopes. Henri was so eager to play the hero and rescue his dear mademoiselle from whatever sad lifestyle he believed she had succumbed to. How much should the Vicomte dare to tell him?

"But you are absolutely certain it was she?" he asked slowly.

"I…yes! It was Marguerite Gautier whom I saw. She ran away upon seeing _me_, I can't imagine why, but I tried to follow her and she disappeared." He glanced nervously at the Vicomtess, who had insisted on being present at this discussion. Henri was hesitant to speak further, knowing he was going to have to dredge up uncomfortable memories for the couple. If the man who had stolen Christine away from the Vicomte was dead, however, he did not see how it could be so terrible to speak of him.

"If she was running from you, Monsieur Laroche," Christine asked, "how can you believe she will be happy to see you if you should finally find her?"

"She didn't try to hide from me when I saw her at the bookstore," he said huffily. "I would assume she wouldn't want to be seen hiding in her father's opera house when he had no idea she was there, and might actually be furious to find out." He turned back to Raoul. "That's what I need you to tell me. Forgive me, but I know you've…been down there. If that monstrous man really did live there, why couldn't she?"

Christine gasped. Tense, Raoul held up a hand to try to console her into being calm and silent. To Henri, he said, "You think she's _living _there?"

"Perhaps. She could be anywhere in the _Opera Populaire_, really. There are a million places inside that massive structure, a person could be there for years and never found."

"No doubt that was her intention."

"Christine, please!" Raoul said.

"Raoul," Henri said, "won't you help? What if she's being held there against her will?"

"Yet wandering free around the opera house?"

Henri sighed in frustration. "I thought you would understand."

Raoul moved to Christine's side and put an arm around her. "I understand you wanting to rescue a young woman who wants to be released from capture. But I will not give you assistance if you wish to disrupt her way of life should she only wish to be left alone."

The piercing cry of a little boy's temper tantrum broke into the air. Christine gasped and hurried out of the parlor and up the stairs. Armande had been such a pleasant baby, but once he learned to walk and attempted to speak…

His nurse was weary and only too eager to relinquish the child into his mother's arms. Christine sat on a chair in the nursery and placed him on her lap. A song from her would settle him down. She was glad to be out of the same room as Henri, anyway. Not that she didn't trust the young man, but he was too eager to find Marguerite. If he did, surely Erik's life would be in danger as well, and Christine wanted to make sure that would not happen.

As much as she had wanted to escape him six years ago, she did not want her former tutor to lose another chance at love. Although she was more than happy with her life as Vicomtess, there had been times when she would be struck with a pang of guilt, wondering what had ever happened to him. She sincerely hoped Marguerite had gone back. Of course, Erik might have killed himself after her ultimate rejection, but Christine could not think of it, preferring to imagine him with the raven-haired young woman who had so obviously grown to love him.

As she whispered to the baby, she heard the front door open and shut and then the rattling of a carriage down the drive. She sighed contentedly. At least Henri Laroche had not stayed for long. She smiled at Raoul when he entered the room, but as she placed their now-calm son on the floor to play with his toys, she noticed a guilty expression on his face. Her respite quickly fled.

"You _didn't _tell him anything, did you?"

Raoul sighed and closed his eyes. "Nothing very specific."

"_What?_" She glanced quickly at Armande, who was watching them as if ready for another tantrum, his wide brown eyes obviously inherited from his mother. Christine left him with his nanny and grasped Raoul's sleeve as the couple left the room.

"What do you mean, _nothing very specific?_" she hissed.

"Christine, he wouldn't leave us alone otherwise. I don't know if he just wants Mademoiselle Gautier or if he wants to know the whereabouts of Marcel D'Aubigne, or both, but I had to tell him _something_!"

"Which was…?"

"I gave him the location of your old dressing room. And I told him there was a trick to the mirror."

"Raoul, you've killed him! Do you think Erik's going to let _Marguerite _go if she wants to stay with him? Do you think he will let Henri intrude upon his dark kingdom unharmed?"

"You said you thought Erik had killed himself."

"He might have. But Marguerite stayed back as I returned to the masquerade, and she hadn't been seen until Henri started babbling about finding her at the bookstore. I would assume she had convinced Erik otherwise. I don't know, Raoul. Perhaps she is there alone. Perhaps she is there with Erik, or Erik still lives in solitude. Then again, there may be _no one _there!" She closed her eyes and scrunched up her face. "I thought this was over years ago."

"It _is _over," Raoul said. "You needn't be concerned. In fact, it worries me that you _are_."

"I just don't want him hunted down and killed like some beast," Christine said. "Above all else, I hope he has Marguerite there with him." She added bitterly, "Perhaps, if they're together, she can keep him from killing Henri if he meets him."

—**sigh— I like Raoul, really I do. But he makes SUCH an easy scapegoat!**


	38. Normal Jitters?

**A/N: So very, very sorry for the long wait. I've been out of town without Internet, and unable to even work on this chapter (which had me stuck anyway, as the story's end is drawing near and I'm trying to savor the last…um…I don't know how many chapters left). I'm going to be rather busy, but not too busy to update!**

**I've been trying to do research on meals in the Victorian era, and this is what I came up with. If the breakfast seems a bit sketchy…I completely agree. Also, more Kay details…I'm sure you can guess which ones. No review replies this time, so sorry! Although thank you to those who found Marguerite's comment about napping to be funny. It was supposed to be —wink—**

Hoping to scrub off the stain of last night's stupidity, Marguerite took a bath instead of a nap. Afterward, she sat at the vanity, brushing and brushing her hair, staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were still red, her face still pale, but at least she was no longer shaking. She was no longer sure of who she was looking at anymore. Was this still Marguerite Gautier? The little girl who had laughed with her close friends in their small-town life and the refined young lady who flirted with the Parisian aristocracy was now so very, very close to being a married woman, propelled into a strange maturity by strange events.

She stood up to finish getting dressed, wishing Beatrice could help her with her corset. She did the best she could on her own—there was no way she would ask for Erik's assistance—but it felt awkwardly loose. _It'll do_, she thought, putting on the dark gray dress, thinking she would have to wash the pink one after dancing, drinking, and sleeping in it all in one night.

How did that rhyme go? _Marry in gray, you'll travel far away_…_Marry in pink, of you he'll always think_…_Marry in white, you've chosen right_…

If she were marrying Marcel, she _would _be in an extravagant white gown, but she certainly wouldn't have chosen right. She would have several maids flocking around her to help prepare, bedecked in the finest of everything, all the best money could buy. A glamorous carriage would be waiting to take her to the cathedral, filled with some of the most well-known names in Paris, and the air would be laden with the fragrance of flowers. Her train would be vast, and her heavy veil surrounded by orange blossoms. It would all _appear _to be romantic and perfect.

When would she find out what her bridegroom was really like? Would it be the wedding night that his brutal nature arose, or perhaps it would gradually show itself—unless she happened to accidentally look at another man under the age of sixty. She shouldn't have been thinking of it at all, but realizing she had come so close to marrying him was such an eerie, horrifying thought. Erik had only words if he was angry, and she could handle those anytime.

Marguerite looked down at her wrists, now bruised. Well, Erik did have a strong grip to go with the words.

_God, what has happened to me?_ She would not have any family or friends there to see her; there would only be Erik and whoever performed the ceremony. Could she possibly go to her father's office now and invite him to her wedding? If she weren't so distressed, she would have laughed out loud at the idea.

Finally she emerged from the bedroom and into the main room, welcomed by the smell of food. Erik came out of the far right end of the room, where she had never entered, carrying a plate laden with ham, mushrooms, and toast with marmalade. They both stared at each other for a second before looking down at the meal, which he held out to her.

"You must be famished," he said.

"Oh, er…thank you," she said, taking the plate and the fork from his other hand. "I'm sorry, you've just taken me quite by surprise." He nodded and went back into what she assumed to be the kitchen, behind other heavy, dark draperies. Strange, she had never thought to look over there, ever believing they were only hangings and not obscuring anything. Anyway, she was always afraid he would tear her head off for poking her nose where it didn't belong. Looking around for a place to sit, she decided just on the sofa, where she promptly fed Beatrice some of the ham.

Erik came back out without any meal of his own. With his thinness, Marguerite had always assumed he never ate much, but for him to stand and look upon her as she shoved food into her own mouth made her uncomfortable. She stopped with the fork halfway and watched him. He took the few steps downward and paused by the sofa to watch her for another moment or so. She frowned, confused, and he knelt at her side. She put her plate aside to give him her full attention. So effective was it that she never noticed Beatrice beginning to lick the marmalade off of her toast.

"I'm giving you the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon," Erik said slowly, "to think about what you're doing."

"What?"

"I don't want you to feel deceived. You should know exactly what you're getting into."

She frowned, wondering if he actually believed she was going to change her mind at this point. It actually surprised her that he would be so insightful as to allow her this. "Yes, I…I understand. You want me to be certain." She could only hope _he _was.

"Then I'm going to leave you to your thoughts for a time."

Her scowl deepened as he stood up. "I can _think _whether you're here or not, Erik."

He smiled slightly. "My paradoxical Marguerite."

Her expression turned quizzical. "What are you talking about?"

"You put up a damn good fight," he said, returning to his stooped position before her. "And yet…" He reached to brush his fingertips against her cheeks, causing her eyelids to flutter closed. "When I touch you like this…" He took her face between his palms and brought it so close, their lips were barely at any distance when he murmured, "You become the softest clay in my hands."

"You can't always shape me into whatever you want, Erik," she whispered.

"No," he said. "You don't fit into any mold."

She smiled, her eyes still closed. The look on her face was so peaceful, so blissful, but so tempting Erik abruptly let her go and rose to his full height. "Keep thinking," he said, before walking through the hidden doorway to the Rue Scribe. "The boat is there, should you change your mind."

_Oh, you! _Marguerite thought, frustrated. How could he be serious? Would she ever convince him? She looked at her breakfast plate again, catching Beatrice swallowing down the last of the ham. All the marmalade had been licked off the toast. The mushrooms were the only things untouched. Suddenly all appetite fled from her, and it had nothing to do with seeing her breakfast going to the cat. She stood up and hurried to the mirror frame, shoving the curtain aside and stepping through, hoping Erik had not gone far.

Once again, the only footsteps she heard were her own, and nothing was to be seen in the pure blackness of the passageway. It seemed her eyes would never adjust, and as she came around a corner, even the dim light from just behind her was gone. She almost called out his name, but if there was anyone else within earshot, she did not want to be discovered.

As she began to wonder how in the world he could have gone anywhere so quickly in such darkness, she smacked right into something dark and solid. She shrieked, stumbling back. A hand grabbed at hers before she fell over completely.

"What are you doing?" Erik's voice asked. She knew it could have been no one else, but she was still so relieved it _was _him that she stretched out her arms and encircled his chest.

"I don't need to think about it," she said. "I already had days and days of envisioning the rest of my life without you. Don't make me think about it anymore, _please_." She still could not see, but her face was pressed against the cloth of his shirt. She felt his hands, one on her back and the other softly resting at the base of her skull. "Marry me, Erik."

"Tonight, when it is dark," he said. "No one will pay any attention then."

_Almost another day_, she thought. "In that case, I have something I must do, and you have to promise not to be angry with me." The heavy silence that followed told her he could make no such promises. "Very well. You may be angry with me, but I will get my way." When she tried to walk past him in the tunnel, he took her elbow and followed closely.

"Do you mind telling me what it is?" he asked tersely.

"No, not until it's too late for you to do anything about it."

His hold on her tightened and he stopped walking, forcing her to follow suit. With a gentle push, her back was against the wall and his mouth was covering hers. She tilted her head just a little and sensed he was not wearing his mask. It made it easier, though he was very unfair. Gasping, she grasped his collar, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. She fought as hard as she could to keep herself in check. When he stood straight again, she could barely breathe and her feet were stuck to the floor. It took several seconds before she remembered what she was supposed to tell him. Or not tell him.

"It's not going to work _this _time, Erik," she said. "But don't worry, I won't put your life in any more danger." She brought her hand to his face, but he had already replaced the mask. In the dark, she traced his left side, the features she had already memorized. However, there were several lines she had not noticed before. "I'm still a little nervous about it all," she confessed.

"That, I do not doubt," he said. "But you still won't tell me—"

"No. I'm going to take care of that right now." He was close behind her again as she set off toward Rue Scribe.

"And there's no way I can convince you otherwise."

"I will only inquire about something. It may not have to happen."

At Rue Scribe, Marguerite gave him another smile and headed off toward the dormitories. Inside, it was no time at all before she found a girl who directed her to Katie's room. Katie and two of her roommates were doing stretches, and all three looked up at her, startled, when she knocked and came in.

"Marguerite!" Katie jumped up from the impossible position. "Are you well? You look—flushed."

For a second, she pressed the back of her fingers to her cheek. "I must speak with you."

"Of course," Katie said, following her out into the hall and closing the door. She noticed how Marguerite nervously glanced about and knew the older girl was wondering if her fiancé was spying on them somehow. Ah, now Marguerite was to learn the consequences of falling in love with a specter! If she _was _in love with him…and not under some sort of spell. She came a little closer, realizing Marguerite was about to whisper almost inaudibly.

"I am going to be married tonight."

Katie didn't know gray eyes could have such fire in them. "Do you wish me to help you escape?" she blurted out, hardly thinking. Those blazing eyes narrowed, and Katie was suddenly afraid. He _had _to have tainted her! She had never been so…she was not even sure there was a word for it.

"Never," Marguerite said. "Perhaps I should not ask you what I came here for, after all."

"No, Marguerite, I'm sorry! What did you want to tell me?"

She looked up at Katie for a few seconds before saying, softer yet, "You're the closest thing to a friend I have in Paris now. I want you to stand there with me and be a witness."

Katie's expression transformed to one of such utter horror that Marguerite wondered if Erik himself had appeared behind her. When she looked, there was no one, and after all, Katie was staring right at her.

"You must be…That is…You can't be serious?"

"Very well. I only thought I might ask."

"Will…what will…_he_ think of it?"

"Most likely nothing very approving. But you have my word he won't hurt you." The blood was being positively pumped out of the ballerina's face, and Marguerite took one of her trembling hands. "Katie, I promise you, he is a man. He's not a ghost—he's a living, breathing man, and he will do as I ask and leave you be."

She paused long enough to note that Katie seemed the tiniest bit more relaxed. "I don't think I could make you understand," she said, "but if you had seen what I have seen…what I have heard and felt…He needs someone, and I will gladly be the one to protect him from the abuses he has had to suffer in this world."

"Has he a heart to be broken?"

"Katie…"

"I'm sorry, Marguerite!" she gasped again. "Of…of course I will go today—tonight—with you. And I will take a separate carriage. But…have you no family? Surely you must know _someone_ in Paris more qualified than myself."

"I didn't say I knew no one in Paris," Marguerite corrected. "I said you are the closest thing to a friend I have in Paris."

"I see," Katie said, though she felt very sorry for Marguerite and afraid of the prospect of seeing the Opera Ghost up close again. Or _Erik_, as Marguerite had called him the night before. "Well, yes, I shall be there. Where and when?"

"Meet me outside the dormitory, behind the steps, at nightfall," Marguerite said. "Do not call attention to yourself. I'm sure you understand how important that must be."

"Certainly," Katie said. "But you must know, I am doing this for you and only for you. Whatever you may say about him, Marguerite, or how much you love him, he is still the Phantom of the Opera, and whenever he is near, I shall fear for my life! You are a stronger woman than many of us, then, to know what you know and love him still." She shook her head. "It is more than any of us could have done, I can tell you."

"I'm sure it is," Marguerite said ruefully, turning away to go down the back stairs of the dormitories, headed toward the chapel again. _Had Christine Daae been one of these? A head for ballet and song and little else? It was awful of her, but I have to admire her strength to be able to refuse Erik once more_…_facing him after all those years_. She smiled to herself, remembering that she had resisted Erik numerous times.

Back in his house—she had to get used to thinking of it as _their _house—she was still alone, except for Beatrice. She wondered where Erik had gone, but resigned herself to the idea that part of Erik would always remain an enigma to her. He certainly would not be Erik otherwise. She contemplated this as she sat on the couch, absently stroking the cat, growing more uneasy as she thought of all the things she _didn't _know about him. It was enough for her, wasn't it?

Beatrice stood up suddenly, her fur bristling and her tail whipping around. Marguerite quickly drew her hand away, seeing how enormous her eyes had become, staring at nothing it seemed. Glancing around and holding her breath, Marguerite saw nothing unusual. The noises were normal, as well, for Erik's place.

And then she heard the voices. It was definitely a man, but there might have been another one there as well. They echoed back to her ears from far away. Had they stumbled down to the far shore somehow? She could not imagine being able to hear their voices from that distance. There were too many twists and turns in the route, and they could not possibly have another boat down there. Erik would have found out long ago. She could yet be imagining it.

_Marcel_, came a horrible thought. _He has found you here_.

She shook her head. That was all over; she had overcome that demon, and now there was nothing between her and Erik.

_No, no, I'm here_…_I will always be here_…_And I will be there tonight, as well_…_Isn't that a pleasant thought to dwell upon?_

Marguerite choked and launched herself up to the organ. She was not supposed to read the music he had not finished, she knew, but this was the first thing she could think of to take her mind off of Marcel. Erik's music. She grabbed a few sheets and gasped when she saw it was the song from _Don Juan Triumphant_ he had tried to teach her. When she played a few notes on the organ, she realized he had rewritten the music to fit her low alto range, the way he had improvised it before.

"_You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment when speech disappears into silence_…_Silence_…" She played every note on the organ and repeated it, shocked it was actually easy. Unfortunately, with the instrument's sound and the cavern's reverberation, she could not sufficiently judge her own voice and hear it critically. Nevertheless, she sang through the entire female part, trying as well as she could not to pay much attention to the lyrics themselves. Eventually, her chest began to hurt from trying to practice the posture and projection he had shown her, and she stopped, breathing deeply. How could divas sing with a corset and sound so effortless?

The cat had disappeared by the time she was finished. Instead of looking for her, Marguerite went back to reading _Don Quixote_. Only a few minutes into it, Erik returned.

"What have you done?" he asked when he stopped through the mirror frame again, before she even noticed him there. She gasped a little as she sat up and turned in her seat. He just looked at her expectantly, as if honestly believing she had no choice but to answer. "It must not have taken very long. Or was it unsuccessful?"

_You have no idea what I was trying to do_, she thought, resolving to _not _tell him about the voices she had heard. She actually began to worry about his reaction when she would tell him about Katie.

"I went to see Katie in the dormitories again," she said, her determination to say the words causing them to pour out like sands in an hourglass. As she had expected—which in itself was surprising—his countenance darkened, his eyes clouding over like the sky just before a violent storm. Still he could not quell the curiosity there as well. He did not ask her why. He did not have to, for he already knew she would continue.

"She is going to be my bridesmaid, and be a witness when I give myself away."

Erik's face gradually simplified, almost blanked. Only the slight tilt to his head gave any reflection of his mind—thoughtfully puzzled, mulling over what she had just said.

"There won't be much to witness," he said. "I found a priest who is willing to skip over the more irritating formalities." He narrowed his eyes. "You are Catholic, yes?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I hope you don't find it too irreverent."

She only shook her head. God was watching over her, over them both, she knew, but still it seemed awkward, almost sacrilegious to ask Him to bless their union. Union. She lightly chewed at her tongue and looked at Erik. He seemed so very calm and calculated about the whole thing. Of course there was give and take for them both, but did he see it only as a business arrangement of sorts?

_No—if his heart were not in it, he would never have become so upset when he thought I was trying to get away from it_.

"You are not angry that Katie will be there?"

"She has already seen me, and I doubt she will say much if she values her life. It was not a little glimpse to fuel a few ghost stories. It was _me_, flesh and blood and right before her eyes. She was frightened out of her mind, and she will not say anything. She is one of the loudest of the ballerinas, but she speaks less gossip."

Marguerite frowned. "How would you know something like that?"

"Watching from shadows all these years, there is much to learn. The ballet rats are rather amusing things when not positively grating." Her face did not soften, and he sighed. "I spy from the corners of the opera house, Marguerite. Not from inside the dormitories." She was surprised to see color seep into his face. "I have never…"

If wisdom and innocence could be somehow combined, it would look like Marguerite at that moment. Her eyes were sad—not with pity, but seriousness—when she asked, "Never?"

He turned away from her and sat at his desk. "When I was in Persia years ago, the shah gave me a gift—he thought." He rested his chin in his palm, his elbow on the desk surface. "One of the harem virgins. She was fifteen." He glanced at Marguerite, but her face was impassive.

"She knew of me, of course," he went on. "_Everyone_ in Mazenderan knew of me. That's why she chose death instead." _That _had satisfactorily shocked her. He did not let Marguerite stew in her nausea for long before saying, "I did not force the choice upon her. She came to me weeping and begging me not to…" He shook his head. "She could not lie with me, so she lay with Death instead. I gave her back to the shah, and the penalty for 'displeasing me' was execution. She had done nothing of the kind, but I had no power to prevent the punishment, and she knew it. She begged me to send her back anyway."

After some heavy silence, Marguerite asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

"You _did _want to know more about me, did you not? Oh, did you not wish to hear something like that? I know I told you I have never killed a woman…But I as good as murdered that one."

"How…how was she executed?"

He shrugged. He could not remember which one of his own designs of torture had been used on her. He didn't want to remember at all, nor did he want Marguerite to know about exactly what sorts of amusements he had provided the shah and sultana. Marguerite saw he was anxious and did not question his unsatisfying answer.

"I would die," she said, "if I lost you. I would rather die than see you suffer."

He allowed himself a smile. What had he done to earn her devotion? Not a bloody thing. And he should have known, once he began to really trust her…he could grow to love her.

Marguerite now felt terrible about her own nervousness and knew she could not voice them to him. Not now, anyway. "Was she pretty?" she asked instead, at the same time wondering why she was curious at all.

He sobered. "She was very lovely," he said. "She had dark hair, dark eyes. Small, but—" He stopped himself again. Marguerite bit her lip, picturing an exotic, voluptuous girl like those she had seen in paintings—almond eyes, two black pools you could fall into and never emerge from, and dark skin that smelled of myrrh, spices, and sun. When her mind wandered to Christine's dark curls and the large, deep eyes she had looked into and never forgotten, Erik cut into her thoughts.

She hadn't noticed he had moved closer, and was holding something she had not seen him carry in. He extended it to her silently, and she stood up to take it. It was Homer's _The Odyssey_. Ah, yes, she had read this before, as well.

"My gift to you," he said, smiling the little slow, half-smile which drove her mad. "Grey-eyed goddess Athena. He mentions her several times. I'd always imagined she looked like you."

Marguerite exhaled loudly, not quite a laugh. "Always?"

"Yes. You won't believe me but it's the first thing I thought about you."

"Before you threatened to kill me."

"Well, it was a very _brief_ first thought."

She looked down at the cover, lovingly tracing the title. "I love this story," she said. She tilted her face back up to Erik's. "But I'm not a goddess."

He placed his hands on her hips and drew her close, the heavy book still wrapped in Marguerite's arms and sandwiched between them. "No, you're not. You're very, very real."

"Thank you," she said, wishing she had a gift to give him in return. She smiled. "Shall I read it to you?"

"Please."


	39. Unholy Matrimony

**A/N: At last, at last. I know you have all been waiting for this chapter. I can only hope I do not disappoint. Oh, and…I don't think I can kill off Henri. Except he will have an encounter will sexy pissed-off Erik, and I'm not sure what _he _will do to that poor boy!**

**Another thing: I for one don't consider Gerry Butler as the ultimate version of Erik, but he's very nice to look at, so why not? Anywho, I know many of us here are Gerry fans anyway, so I have to share that last weekend…I saw _Dear Frankie _(with artgem04, hehe)! It was wonderful and I about cried my eyes out, but it's beautiful.**

**O.G. **Yeah, Homer is hard to read. I read _The Odyssey_ in my freshman (college) English class, and I don't remember much, except the repetition of the phrase "gray-eyed Athena" and when I gave Marguerite gray eyes, I realized I had to incorporate that somehow. Hope you enjoyed your Taco Bell!

**TheWhitePrincess1:** I'm so glad you like Marguerite! Fear not! I will not forget my readers, even though it is summer. This story is still my first love (no, seriously, since I don't have a boyfriend and I can't get my hands on the real Gerry Butler, it IS my true love for right now!) and I will try my best at it. I have a crappy Internet connection, though.

**LenisVox:** You have my undying…jealousy! I've been trying and trying to get my own copy, but alas I am reduced to jumping back and forth between the 2 libraries in my county who have one of _Phantom_. —sigh— What's a sad phan like me to do? And in response to your other review: I think Gilderoy Lockhart is an excellent fop, actually, if you go by the definition in the dictionary. I'm more of a Fred Weasley fan myself…or Snape, when I'm in a bizarre mood. When this story is over, Henri can be all yours.

**Nade-Naberrie: **Thank you! I was so angry with that slave girl when I read the book. True, Kay Erik is very amoral and sinister, but he is also by far one of the most alluring and sexiest versions of Erik there is. And…have I made you renounce your sometimes-R/C-ness?

**Tink8812:** At this point in the story, it's been exactly a year since they first met. I didn't really plan it, it just sort of worked out that way. Now that I've thought about it, it seems rather fast, especially on Erik's part. But then, he did have 5 years of solitude, and w/o Christine, before even meeting Marguerite, so maybe…Oh, gosh, here comes the artist angst again!

**NightmareQueen13:** HOW did you get an Erik plushie and where can I get one?

**Artgem04:** —sniff— I miss you! Can't wait until the next time we can get together and be disturbed by our mothers, watch movies and laugh ourselves silly. I saw a book today about the making of _Van Helsing_ and I thought of you! —ahem— Someone's birthday is coming up, isn't it?

Disclaimer: See Chapter One!

* * *

"You look so lovely, my dear. The most beautiful bride this altar has ever seen." 

Marguerite looked up at him in loathing through the cloud of her veil. "It's not for you."

He laughed and smiled that smile she hated so much, his fingers brushing against the filmy white material. "But of course it is. Everything you do from this moment on will be for me, and me alone. But then, who would you prefer?"

"I want Erik."

As a reward for her words, he slowly lifted her veil, and they saw each other clearly. She received a severe strike across her face that almost took off her nose.

"He's dead, you filthy little whore. He's _dead_, and you know it! Now what choice _have _you but to release yourself to me?"

"There's always death," Marguerite said, resolved not to cry as she touched her cheek. She moved her hand just in time to receive another blow that knocked her down. He went to his knees and pinned her to the floor that way, bunching up the skirts of her gown.

"You're mine. Forever."

"Don't do this," she begged, choking on tears.

"Say it!"

"No, I can't."

He tore off her veil and gripped her hair close to the skull, tilting her head back so her neck was fully exposed. If he wanted to slit her throat, it would have been the easiest thing in the world. "If you don't say it, I'll make it ten times worse."

She swallowed, her tears drying in her eyes, stinging them. "I'm y-yours." She gasped as he twisted her hair.

"How long?"

"Forever."

He leaned down, close to her ear, and she felt crushed beneath him. "Whose are you, little Marguerite?"

"I'm yours…forever."

He smiled again. "I knew you couldn't resist me."

* * *

Marguerite woke from her own spasm with a short gasp for air. Bathed in a cold sweat, she sat up. Had she cried out in her sleep? There was some weight on her stomach—her book. She must have fallen asleep while reading. Looking around and wiping her brow, she saw Erik watching her from his desk. Had he been sitting there before she fell asleep? She could not remember. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, feeling thwarted without letting it show. He had seen her in the throes of nightmares before, when she was with him after the attack, and recognized the signs now. There was no reason to believe the subject of the dream was any different. Marguerite was not one to mumble in her sleep, or toss and turn with much frequency. She gripped her bedcovers as she slept, twisting them with desperate hands while all the muscles in her body were tense as violin strings, but she rarely made a sound.

In peaceful slumber, she lay like a rag doll.

She gnawed her tongue, wondering if she ought to tell Erik about her dream. What could he do about it? He had already _done _all he could. Confessing her dream might only upset him, and above all things she did not want _that_. Even if it wasn't directed at her. Besides, she was ashamed of her behavior in that dream—she had too easily succumbed to a threat that was still carried out.

She put on a smile that would have fooled no one. "I'm just fine," she said.

Not a muscle in Erik's face twitched when he turned back to writing. After a few more minutes, he went to the organ and played some soft, sweet melody. Marguerite watched, wishing he would come to her and hold her close in comfort, yet she could not let him know how distressed she had become. For the moment, his music would have to serve as its own caress.

When the time came for them to leave again, he did not have to speak a single word. He only completed the piece, glanced at the clock, and turned to Marguerite. As she had not taken her eyes from him the entire time, he knew he had to only nod, and she rose from her seat, nervously fingering her hair.

She went into the bedroom to fix it up, and when she emerged, it was pinned up simply, making her look a bit older. The dark shadows under her eyes and slight droop to her lids enhanced the impression.

"I told Katie to meet us behind the dormitory steps at nightfall," she said.

Erik pressed his lips together in disapproval, despite what he had agreed to. When he actually saw the light pulse in her neck, he did not know whether to relax at her vulnerable state or become angry at the obvious evidence she still feared him a little. Silently, he put on his voluminous cloak and a black mask. Black leather gloves were the final detail. It seemed as though they were not attending their own wedding, but a funeral. Not even a sad funeral—rather, one for someone they did not know very well and were only going out of respect for another, still living.

Marguerite wished she had something familiar to set her eyes upon, something associated with what they were actually doing. Had there been a little flower in Erik's boutonniere, she would have felt calmer. Yet she was not sad. Her lack of tranquility was every bit as normal as any bride-to-be's, though there was a bit more _apprehension_ thrown into the mix than was usual. Sadness was not among them. What was she leaving behind? She had nothing to lose, and quite a bit to gain. She glanced at Erik surreptitiously. What had he to obtain from it all? Was it enough for him to finally find a woman who loved him fervently?

"She will take another carriage," she added, relieved to see Erik visibly relax. She had not even known he was so tense until his shoulders sagged slightly. "You know, it's bad luck for you to have seen me so soon before the…before we…marry." It was a poor attempt to lighten the strangely morose mood. Where was her happiness from that other night, during the thunderstorm, when he had agreed to marry her?

"Bad luck has been with us from the start," Erik said, and when he turned around to look at her again, she saw in his green eyes that he was willing to defy any misfortune they would encounter. From somewhere deep within, her smile resurfaced.

Katie was not there when they reached the stairs. Marguerite had not even stopped to think that there might have been a performance that night, that the dancer would have had to be onstage instead. Erik assured her there was not, however. So they waited, from the shadows watching the darkening sky and the lightening crowd of city folk.

"_Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille_," Erik suddenly recited, his voice low, his gaze still on the sky. "_Tu réclamais le Soir_;_ il descend_; _le voici_/ _Une atmosphere obscure envelope la ville_/ _Aux uns portant la paix_, _aux autres le souci_."

"Am I your sorrow?" Marguerite asked when he stopped. After a long pause, he at last turned to look at her again.

"I was not speaking of you, but the verse just came to mind."

"Who was it?"

"Baudelaire."

"Oh," Marguerite said, drawing out the one sound, understanding now. She moved her eyes away to sweep the streets before them. "I never thought his poetry was very lovely."

"It's not supposed to be." He smirked. "Are you familiar with 'The Happy Corpse?'"

Marguerite shivered. "Please don't mention it. I've read it once before." He exhaled and turned her chin to look at him again.

"Don't forget whom you will soon be marrying."

She closed her eyes and sighed. She could just say yes, she knew, but she had done that so often before, she could not see the use of repetition.

"I have many gifts and talents with which to amuse a young wife," he said, one finger tracing her cheekbone. "And I will always provide for you. The only thing in your life you will have to be ashamed of will be _me_, myself." He did not tell her about the small house in the country he had purchased many years ago, with Christine in mind, and left in disrepair. There would come a time, once he arranged for it to be fixed up and suitable for residence, when he would tell her. Better that she be joyfully surprised later to learn she would not be doomed to live beneath the _Opera Populaire _all the rest of her days.

"I am not ashamed of you," Marguerite said. "Or else I would have never had anyone else accompany us." She nodded her head, and he turned to look in that direction. Katie was coming, swathed in her own cloak and slowing her pace when Erik's eyes descended upon her. About fifteen feet away from them, she stopped completely, and Marguerite alone closed the distance.

"Thank you for coming," she said quietly. Katie only nodded and stepped to the curb to hail an approaching carriage. Erik startled Marguerite when he took her elbow.

"Go with her," he said, quietly enough that Katie did not hear his words. "I will take another." Before she could ask him why, he went to the driver to give him directions and coin before helping Marguerite into a seat beside Katie. The ballerina's eyes grew wide with panic until the shadowy figure, his head hidden beneath his cowl, stepped away. Then it was apparent he would not be going with them.

"Has he released you?" she whispered foolishly. "Is he letting you go free?"

"Again, Katie, must I remind you I am not his prisoner?"

"Forgive me," she said. "I was not thinking. But what _is _he doing?"

"I don't know. I suppose taking a different carriage, though I can't see why. I did tell him you said you'd take your own." She smiled and said, more to herself than Katie, "Perhaps he has given me my last unmarried moments to spend in female companionship."

Her friend sighed, the sound lost beneath the rattling wheels. "It feels as if I've known you for longer than a few days."

Marguerite actually laughed. "Indeed it does."

"I never imagined…When I first saw you in the dormitories, not knowing anything about you, I didn't know what to think, why you were there." She looked down at Marguerite with sad, hazel eyes. Marcel's eyes had been hazel, too, but Katie's were wide, warm, and sweet. "I still don't know anything about you. You told me you were engaged to be married, but…" She shook her head. "I don't know who he could have been, but I certainly never thought the Phantom of the Opera! Wouldn't have expected him to find another after Christine Daae, either. His did not seem to be an obsession that would easily fade."

_It hasn't_, Marguerite thought, her smile evaporating like a summer mist. She turned to look out of the carriage. They had not traveled far. _Katie's fear has caused her words to cut_, she told herself, but it did not dull the pain.

After another few moments, she sensed the vehicle slowing down. She looked up to see they were passing the same church she had entered before, seeking answers, even for questions she didn't know. _I have found them, have I not? Lord, take me away somehow if I am not supposed to be here_. _Blessed Virgin, as another woman, watch over me_. The driver guided the carriage around a corner, stopping beside a small courtyard with a house that seemed out of place in the city.

The butterflies returned to her stomach. Her heart began a strenuously rapid beat.

Katie gripped her hand as though it would be the last they would see of each other. "Marguerite, I wish you nothing but happiness, if your happiness is possible. Please do not delay in coming to me if you ever need anything! And…even if you don't need anything." Her lower lip trembled, and despite Marguerite's repeated warnings, Katie could not help but think she was seeing her to the mouth of Hades.

Even Erik thought so.

Only Marguerite knew better. And she still had her nerves to contend with.

Erik had instructed the driver to remain with the two women until he arrived. The city was beginning to grow even more hushed, and they heard a door closing, and outside footsteps before they were obscured by the noise of another carriage turning the corner. Marguerite looked out the window again and saw the priest standing there. He was the same one who spoke to Marguerite after she had fallen asleep in the church. Perhaps she should have told Erik about that little incident…Would it have been any different?

_I found a priest who is willing to skip over the more irritating formalities_.

She wouldn't have expected it of _this _man, but then, there was no way to be sure of anyone, was there? Katie watched her expectantly, but she could not move from her seat. She sincerely hoped he would not recognize her, yet knew it would make little difference if he did. Discreetly she lifted one hand from her lap just enough to see that it trembled intensely on its own. She clasped both together and chewed her lip before crossing herself and bowing her head, her eyes wide open. She begged once again for God's comfort and protection, on behalf of both herself and Erik. Katie remained mercifully silent.

A black-gloved hand was slowly extended into her line of vision.

She hesitated only the briefest moment before grasping it. Heat shot up her arm and she looked up as he helped her out onto solid ground. His face was completely hidden beneath his hood, aided by the black mask he had donned. Though his height could not be mistaken, Marguerite suddenly feared it was a trick, another man in disguise, though she could not imagine who. Without much thought, she thrust her free hand into the shadows within the cloth, wanting to confirm it was Erik, yet loathe to remove the hood and reveal him. He obviously desired to remain unseen.

Her curious hand gently felt for his chin, already roughened by the late hour, and her fingers ran over his mouth, the shape familiar to her by now. This mask did not completely disguise his deformity, and she felt that, too, in the terrible sensation of dead flesh contrasted with the warmth of the living. Satisfied, she drew her hand back and gave him a brave smile.

"It _is _you," she mumbled, half joking. Had she been able to see the look on his face—astonishment that she had not thrown back his hood, that her hands had freely touched his deformed skin, and mentally clinging to the lingering sensation of her fingers on his mouth—she would not have understood.

He took her arm at the elbow and, deliberately ignoring Katie as she stumbled grudgingly from the carriage, turned toward the waiting priest.

"Good evening, _Father_," he said derisively, as though the title left a bad taste in his mouth. "As you can see, we have even provided a witness for you."

Marguerite avoided looking at the man, but she could not help noticing how he seemed to be struggling to hide his curiosity and his repulsion at the strangely shrouded figure and his young bride, clad in dark gray. Their eyes accidentally met for the briefest moment, and she looked away quickly. Not quickly enough for Erik to miss, however. His hold on her arm became stronger.

"Yes," said the priest. "Shall we begin?" They went into the courtyard to avoid being seen. When the four of them stopped, he hesitantly asked for payment. Erik thrust the small bag of heavy coins into his hands. Marguerite had a strong sense of disillusionment.

"That is for your silence as well," Erik said, the warning already clear in his tone. "If you renege on this agreement, you shall be meeting your Heavenly Father sooner than you expected." Marguerite closed her eyes, pained at his threat, but the priest only nodded.

To her horror, he turned his blue eyes to Marguerite and said, "I see your questions must have been answered." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik's hood turn toward her, but she did not look at him. She studied the door to what must have been the priest's house, not looking at anyone in particular.

"Yes, Father," she said. _But I have many new questions_. "I have made a choice."

Erik took her shoulders and smoothly moved her to face him. "What are you speaking of?"

"I came to this church," Marguerite said softly, "soon after…I left you. Before I started working at the bookstore."

"Seeking sanctuary, it seems."

"Of sorts."

"Monsieur?" the priest said tentatively. "Mademoiselle?"

Swallowing, Marguerite nodded. She took Erik's hand, and in response he gripped hers. _Was _she a prisoner?

_This is the last sunrise you will ever see_._ Today you will bind yourself to me, and consign yourself to the underworld for the rest of your life!_

"We needn't go inside," Erik said firmly. Far to her left, Marguerite saw Katie shiver and look at him spitefully. The priest's face and uncomfortable clearing of his throat indicated he, too, noticed.

"Very well," he said. "We have come together here tonight in the presence of God and this witness, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…"

_I am at the point of no return_, Marguerite thought, as his words faded into the background. How had it come to this? A year ago she had met this man, quickly learning to fear and pity him as she fell under involuntary servitude. Now she was marrying him, standing beside him and nearly fainting. Her dark love still awed and frightened her with both his own genius and the emotions he effortlessly summoned within her. She never knew when he did so on purpose, if he ever did.

Thinking he was looking stonily forward as she was, she tried to glance at him, forgetting he was enshrouded and she would not see his face. She was startled that, when she slowly turned her head to look, he had already been watching her. Biting her lip, she averted her gaze, sensing the familiar flush already spreading its web across her face.

_I have to write to my parents,_ she suddenly thought, the priests words droning on and far away. _Whether they wish to hear from me or not, they must be informed I am married_. Could she tell them it was not to Marcel? It was probably for the best, though they certainly would not be pleased to learn it was someone else entirely. Even she would not be able to tell them much about their new son-in-law. And how long could they go on living right under her father's nose, albeit very far under his nose, without an accidental encounter? _God, why did I have to be the one who lived? I'm sure none of the other children would have given our parents as much trouble, had it been one of them instead of myself_.

Startled out of her reverie by a direct question from the priest, she responded in the affirmative, her answer halting and clumsy—not so much by a desire to rethink her vows, but simply because she had nearly forgotten where she was. She positively jumped when Erik took her other hand and slid a simple gold band around her third finger. Unable to raise her eyes to his, she stared at the foreign object as though she did not know what it was for. Another abrupt, shaky breath, and she quickly encircled his waist with his arms and clung tightly, fully realizing now she could hold him close, hear his voice, and smell his magnificent scent for the rest of her life. It took several seconds for him to overcome his incredulity and return the embrace.

Another few moments, and she pulled back with tears on her face, abashedly releasing him from her hold and wiping her pink cheeks. She felt her left hand gently taken by another, smaller and feminine, and heard Katie's voice.

"God be with you, Marguerite. You're a genuine married lady now."

* * *

**A/N: Just in case you are curious, here's one English translation for the Baudelaire poem Erik recited. The whole thing is entitled "Meditation" in the particular translation I read or "Recueillement" in the original French.**

Calm down, my Sorrow, we must move with care.  
You called for evening; it descends; it's here.  
The town is coffined in its atmosphere,  
Bringing relief to some, to others care.

**And also, NO! the story is not over yet! When it is, you will see "THE END." I promise. Now stop worrying and write that review! **—**wink**—


	40. Distress and Desire

**A/N: OH MY GOSH I have a feeling I've been doing something wrong! I am losing reviewers by the truckload now. —sigh of despair— To those of you who do review, thank you so much, I love you eternally. It's good to know I still have support.  
****Just so you don't send me any reviews correcting the lyrics, they are from the _original _Phantom of the Opera libretto, a little different from the movie.  
****Well…if I was insecure about posting the last chapter, think of how I must feel about _this_.  
**Disclaimer: See chapter one

* * *

From within his shadows, Erik glanced resentfully at the ballerina who spoke to his new wife as though she were afraid the earth would open up and swallow her. Katie had behaved herself, true enough, but her presence was no more welcome than before, in Erik's case. He took another step closer to Marguerite and placed his hands on her shoulders, his instinct to protect her increasingly fierce. 

She was his _wife_ now. He, Erik, who had suffered so much pain, hatred, and loneliness, had finally found his mate. At last, his chance at an ordinary life was clearer, almost within his grasp. Could it be done? He looked down at her, seeing that her face was tilted upward and her eyes were searching the yawning cavern of his dark hood for something recognizable. A streetlamp glittered in her eyes, and a tightness came into his stomach. He wanted her so much, and now she had no excuse to refuse him. It was a good thing she could not see his face at the moment, least of all his eyes, for she would surely find something there which was bound to unsettle her.

But the deed was done. It was done, and his greatest desire of that moment was to get out of there as soon as possible.

"Now, come inside," said the priest. "I told my sister you were coming, and she has a little supper waiting."

Relieved to be welcomed under a roof belonging to more _normal_ people, Katie willingly followed where he pointed. Her cheerful greeting could be heard upon her entering the house and meeting the sister. Erik and Marguerite froze, taken by surprise. Her stomach ached with hunger, but she was quite sure Erik would not willingly set foot over the threshold, particularly that of a priest. Besides…he didn't eat. Or at least, she had never seen him eat, though since he was alive, he must do so once in a while. It was yet another thing about which she had been unwilling to ask him.

It was astounding that a man of God willing to conduct covenants so secretly and irregularly would go to the trouble of having a meal prepared for them. Two or three more mouths were quite a burden for a woman used to cooking for two, and Marguerite did not wish for the sister's extra work to be in vain.

"You shouldn't have bothered," Marguerite said, knowing she sounded ungracious.

"It was a pleasure," said a thin, sharp-looking woman with warm blue eyes as she came into the doorway. "All newlyweds are entitled to a wedding feast." Her words died out as she took in the sight of Erik, inhaling sharply before she could catch herself. Marguerite was sure they looked quite the pair, with her new husband covered in a cloak and herself dressed in dark gray. Was this their first test?

"Erik, please let's come in…just for a little." When he remained stubbornly silent, she added, "You don't have to eat." Again he refused to speak, and she sighed and went inside herself. She smiled at the priest's sister. Katie eyed her with some suspicion, swallowing down bread and stew. Marguerite sipped at the bowl placed in front of her, feeling guilty for leaving Erik outside. It was no more than a few minutes, however, before he too passed through the doorway, a dark presence in what would have been a cheerful household. He took a seat close to her, but said nothing and consumed nothing.

Marguerite's nervousness increased with each spoonful, until she could eat no more. Katie was persuaded to leave with them, taking a carriage that would return her to the dormitories. Erik and Marguerite took one back to Rue Scribe.

Inside, his silence was not nearly so cold, and he finally pushed back his hood and let her see him again. She smiled, thinking how ironic it was that _he _wore the veil at their wedding, but her smile vanished when she thought over how unlike a wedding it was. She was married. No bridesmaids, no witnesses but Katie, no flowers, nor guests, nor rice. Despite her best efforts, she could not hold back the tears, nor hide them when they came.

_It doesn't matter_, she reminded herself. But she couldn't help feeling disappointed. There was no doubt her parents would have disapproved of Erik, but she wished they could have been able to see their only daughter married. She wanted Estelle and Charlotte to have been there. She wished she could have written to her friends back in Saint-Marie and at least told them the news. She shouldn't have cut off contact with them! How could she ever have allowed herself to become absorbed in her parents' silly ladder-climbing schemes?

"Marguerite," Erik said softly, squeezing her hand. She quickly wiped her tears away with her other wrist and tried a wider smile to make him think she was weeping for joy. He was not fooled. "Has it just fully occurred to you, what you've done?"

She looked him full in the face. "I don't want to take it back. I just…I wish I could have had family there."

Erik knew of no other comfort but to kiss her, gently wiping away her tears and going against the urge to be a little less _temperate_. She was so thankful he did not try to offer the right words. Her eyes clenched tight, she buried her face in the lapel of his jacket, breathing in his wonderful scent she was never able to define.

"_You're_ my family now," she whispered, not sure if he heard her over the carriage rattling and the clip-clop of the horse.

Not one of the few people who remained about the streets, if they even raised their eyes to look, would have guessed there were a pair of newlyweds inside. She didn't quite _feel _as she had always imagined when she became a bride. Soon, though, it could hardly be overlooked.

Her pulse was racing dangerously by the time they stepped out of the carriage at Rue Scribe. Erik paid the driver before leading her into the series of passageways back to his house—their house. At that time, the place looked its most alien, without even Beatrice's comforting presence. It seemed even the cat wished to give them privacy. Marguerite could only stand still, not speaking, not moving, and hardly breathing. She watched the shifting waters, trying to blank out her mind. She was in no way prepared for this. Erik's voice floated to her ears from some strange distance. Even though her brain had not registered his question, she shook her head no. From the inside, she could not tell if her face was ghostly pale or bright red.

She started, feeling an arm around her, and she was being turned to face him. She stared straight ahead, at his vest, until he tilted her chin to make her meet his eyes. The unveiled passion and yearning she saw terrified her, and she tensed up suddenly, her breath catching in her lungs.

"What is it?" he asked. She placed one hand against his chest, wanting to keep him at a distance, but he took it in his own, kissing her palm and entwining their fingers.

She was deathly afraid of crumpling into tears, embarrassed at her insecurity and fear of disappointing him. "What am I supposed to do?" The raw emotion in his eyes softened a little, and he took her other hand.

"Trust me," he whispered. Another look came over his face, his chin tilted up, and Marguerite knew he was preparing to sing. His voice enveloped and encouraged her, plucking at her nerves and fibres as he would a stringed instrument, calling forth her every sensation from within. So enraptured was she by his command that it frightened and fascinated her all the more. "_You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish which, 'til now, has been silent_…_silent_."

She well recalled coming across that song from _Don Juan Triumphant_. She had been awed and confused by its untamed emotions. Hard to believe Erik had actually tried to teach it to her a long time ago. No, not so very long ago, but it seemed far away, and this was the first time she had heard him actually sing it. He could not have had this night in mind when he composed it. Surely it was written with another woman in mind. One very specific.

"_I have brought you that our passions may fuse and merge_…_In your mind, you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me_."

True enough. As difficult as it was with the look on his face, she did not take her eyes from him as he released her hands to move to her hair, loosening it until it fell around her shoulders in a thick, silky black mass. The pins tumbled to the floor unnoticed.

"_Now you are here with me, no second thoughts, you've decided_…_decided_."

Marguerite took a deep breath to calm herself. Her ears, her mind, her heart and soul were inundated with the music, and she felt as if she were caught up at sea. She held Erik's hands again, her anchors, and closed her eyes, hoping and praying the song also spoke of _love_. There was a roaring in her ears as she suddenly wondered if he would expect her to respond in song, as well.

"_Past the point of no return_…_No backward glances_. _The games we've played 'til now are at an end_. _Past all thought of 'if' or 'when'_…_No use resisting_. _Abandon thought and let the dream descend_." Gradually, Erik moved her hands away, reaching out to cup her face. Marguerite felt herself blushing and realized, as his fingers gently moved down her neck, that he didn't have to stop anywhere anymore. Yet he did, when he saw the tears shimmering in her eyes, but his voice became more fervent.

"_What raging fire shall flood the soul? What rich desire unlocks its door? What sweet seduction lies before us?_"

Marguerite finally took one of his hands and kissed it, the pale fingertips calloused with years of bringing forth bliss in musical form, the palms rough from climbing the backstage ropes and using the steering pole on the gondola. Hands that had killed—and hands that had protected her. He had long ago removed his gloves, and now his left fingers were tangled in her hair as if he'd never touched it before. She closed her eyes as he kissed the top of her head, his hands caressing her shoulders again and moving down her arms. She held her whole body tense when they moved to unexplored territory.

Suddenly she felt as clumsy and unrefined as never before. For the last couple of years, she was supposed to be trained to be a young lady of breeding. What had happened?

She had not been readied for this.

"_Past the point of no return, the final threshold_. _What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn beyond the point of no return?_"

She knew this, she knew the part. He had not heard her practice it, practicing to exorcise her mind, and unknowingly rehearsing for this one very small performance. Was this the gift she could give to him? Not that her voice was worthy on any level, certainly, but she had nothing else to give him. She inhaled slowly as Erik removed his jacket, her heart speeding up just when she thought it was impossible. She almost choked on her own breath again.

"_You have brought me to that moment where words run dry, to that moment where speech disappears into silence_…_Silence_." She stopped, Erik's arms around her waist, completely still and silent. His face held a sober delight she had never seen there before. Was it possible she could have pleased him? "_I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why_…"

_I love you, Erik,_ she thought. _That's my reason why_. She tried to ignore the feeling of her dress loosening—her eyesight was blurring with tears and lightheadedness. "_In my mind, I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent_. _Now I am here with you, no second thoughts_. _I've decided_…_Decided_…"

Erik bent down and kissed her, breaking the song. Her arms went around his neck, and she hoped her tears would not transfer onto his face. When he pulled back a little, she looked at him, endless questions in her eyes. "Go on," he mumbled huskily. When he led her back to the bedroom, her voice became even less confident, a little more stumbling. Feeling faint, she kept at it.

"_Past the point of no return_…_No going back now_._ Our passion-play has now, at last, begun_. _Past all thought of right or wrong_. _One final question_: _How long should we two wait before we're one?_" Didn't she want this? It was all blended together, this kind of life she had asked for. What was it that scared her now? Well…everything.

"Erik," she whispered, "I think—"

"Don't think."

She covered her eyes with her hands, not wanting to see him as she continued, for if she did, she would lose her nerve. Her mind irrelevantly wondered why he had shut the door. Who were they keeping out? The cat? "_When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames, at last, consume us?_"

Then came the part that combined their voices. Erik's soared beyond hers, and she felt sufficiently humiliated. "_Past the point of no return, the final threshold_. _The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn! We've passed the point of no return_." The notes lingered in the air before finally dying, and she was left wondering what came next.

"Marguerite, look at me." She obeyed, knowing her face must have been flushed beyond recognition and realizing there was something she had to ask. Dear God, in the height of passion, who was he going to think of?

"Who do you see, Erik? When you look at me, who do you see?"

"You, and you alone."

Her throat still ached with more suppressed tears, and she wished she could have said the same for him. _This is different, this is different_, she kept telling herself, even as her dress and petticoats pooled around her feet, she felt the mattress against her back, and saw the face she adored most in the world gazing down from above her. Realizing she had to _do _something, she sat up a little and raised shaky hands to unbutton his shirt. Respiration was easier with a loosened corset, until he kissed her again, sudden and forceful.

Even within the activities of the here and now, she saw flashes of old things she tried so hard to forget, or at least ignore. Despite drowning in her own senses, her mind was pulled elsewhere, reminding her of circumstances disturbingly similar, yet vastly different. When she felt Erik's weight upon her, there was an explosion behind her eyes. She screamed and tried to get away.

_Don't do this!_ she told herself. _He loves you_. _Give him what you both want_.

No matter what she told herself, she couldn't.

Stunned, Erik shrank back as well. _Merde_, he thought, realizing what she must have been thinking of as she clawed her way under the bedcovers, nearly suffocating on holding back sobs. He followed her, not realizing how contaminated and unworthy she felt.

"Marguerite, it's me," he said, trying to move her hands from covering her face. "It's _me _here, not him."

"Make him go away, Erik!" She sounded like a child with a bad dream. But she was a woman, and had faced something much worse, something far too real to forget as easily as she had thought she might.

"I've been trying." She reached out for his mask, but he clamped his hand on it and drew back slightly. "Not tonight," he said. "For the love of God, not now!"

"_You're _not the monster. _You're _not the ghost."

"I will not give you nightmares on your wedding night!"

"I'm already having them, wide awake." She sounded frantic. "Please, Erik, do this for me."

He sat up a little more and looked down at her, into her pleading, fearful face. When she was seeing his ghastly visage and in physical pain, she would not thank him, possibly not forgive him. Yet could he refuse her now? He took a deep breath and removed his mask. She lifted a single finger to trace his jaw line.

"Thank you," she said.

"Look in my eyes. Don't look away, no matter what."

"Erik, I love you," she said.

Kissing her neck, he whispered, "You know I won't let anything happen to you."

Over the course of her few years on earth, Marguerite had heard murmurings from the few girls in their village who had lain with a man and would tell about it. They were secrets she did not necessarily wish to be privy to, but she heard them nonetheless. No matter how they phrased it, none of it had sounded very appealing…until she had met Erik and new sensations were aroused within her. In acting them out, she had no idea.

In that moment with Erik, she recalled their warnings of discomfort during in the first connection. Though anticipated, it was worse than she expected, fueled by memories of her experience with Marcel. She could not keep herself from closing her eyes and biting her lip until she tasted blood just to silence her cries of distress. Yet complete silence on her part was impossible, and certainly did not escape her husband. She felt his whole body shaking, and could no longer look at him, out of her own shame, afraid that failing to obtain pleasure from consummating their marriage would be to deny him his.

When she took her eyes off of Erik, her mind quickly moved back in time, involuntarily dredging up torturous images of Marcel, and she was in utter terror. She shook her head with a shameful whimper, not even thinking Erik would hear and see. It was almost as if she were in a different world, completely alone and powerless. She felt the ghosts of scratches and blows on her body, even where nothing touched her now. Then she felt Erik shudder violently, and she opened her eyes.

He was beside her, perspiration beading on his forehead. His eyes retained some strange, new light as he stared at her. She glanced at him once and turned over, hiding her face in disgrace. He placed a hand on her back. "Are you in pain?"

She nodded. "I didn't think it would…hurt so much. And I still see him. He's going to be with me until I die."

_You're already being unfaithful? You little slut, you're lying in your wedding bed with your husband, and your head is filled with the face of another!_

"No, he won't," Erik said, bringing his arms around her. "You're mine now."

_You were always _mine, _didn't you realize it?_

Marguerite turned to him again. "And you belong to me." She stunned herself with a sudden, loud sob. "Erik, please don't be angry with me!"

His eyes widened. "And why would you imagine that?"

She buried her face in the pillow while trying to think of the right words. When she turned her head, she did not look at Erik. Instead, she occupied her vision with the bed's deep red hangings, the dancing light of the candelabra. "I didn't want to let you down," she finally said. She reached for him with a new purpose. "Erik…if you really want me…take me again. Drive him from my mind." Her hand went to touch his cheek, but his eyes blazed up and he pushed her away.

"Do not make a whore of me, mademoiselle!" he hissed. "I am not some useful distraction!"

_Mademoiselle?_ A sick feeling filled her when she realized he was virtually echoing her words from weeks ago, when she thought he would use her as such. When he began to move away, she sat up quickly and threw her arms around his neck, half afraid he would shove her back. He could not.

"No, Erik, I didn't mean it that way." She kissed his right cheek. "Don't go away. You're a part of me now. I'm sorry I've disappointed you so."

He returned the embrace, sliding one hand down her hip. "Lay back down," he said. When she did, she watched him expectantly, but he only lay beside her. Murderous thoughts against Marcel filled his head again, making him feel even worse knowing he could do no more. He couldn't get inside of her head and kill him again, and he couldn't take anything back. And now that they were married, Erik had greater reason to despise him.

_If you hadn't sent her to bring Christine, it never would have happened_. _You disgusting fool, it's all your fault_. _And you blame her for wanting to push him out of her mind_. _She's your wife now, and you have an obligation to protect her and comfort her_. _Not at this point, with these violent thoughts in your mind_. _You could do a lot more damage to her without realizing it_.

Marguerite pressed her lips together before saying, "You're not going to…?"

He shook his head. She closed her eyes and he watched her mouth work, her jaw clench, the veins in her neck pulse in and out. He wanted to tell her to let go and weep until she was satisfied, but could not bring himself to speak. Finally a tear broke through her bulwarks, and the rest followed, though she quickly wiped them away.

"I wanted it to be beautiful," she said, beginning to shiver, "and I couldn't even see you."

Erik knew at once she was not talking about her eyesight.

"It won't always be like this," she said, pressing herself against his chest, trying to avoid the inescapable chill that comes with living near a subterranean lake. "I won't let it! It was the pain…" Tears and fatigue rendered her words a bit slurred. "I know you didn't mean to cause me pain, but…but _he _did. It's all I could think about. I'll forget it Erik, I promise…"

Now it was Erik's turn to be tense, his body again responding to her closeness, and having to keep himself in check…still. He kept telling himself he understood—and _he _himself was, for once, not the reason. At that moment, however, the knowledge was of no comfort to him. How cruel of Fate to give him a woman who adored him, yet took no pleasure from it because of damage by another! And Marguerite seemed to be taking all the blame upon herself.

Although they were silent, it was a long time before she fell asleep, and Erik hardly at all.


	41. Insolent Boy

**A/N: I guess I do still have quite a few supporters out there! My most sincere thanks. I am forever indebted to you all for restoring my confidence. I send you hugs, kisses, cookies, souvenir punjabs, Erik plushies, and baskets of fruit and cheese. You are all so wonderful. Now, I have a few comments to make to some of those reviews. But since I got the most reviews ever, I can't respond to everyone, for lack of time. As usual.**

**Nade-Naberrie: **Someone needs to read over the chapter again! I kind of obscured it, but if you reread it, you'll see Marguerite does not actually _deny_ Erik. She just doesn't enjoy it. Please don't be angry at her! I haven't had an experience like hers, but imagine it would leave much long-term scarring. Just wait until you see what I have planned for chapter 42! —cackles—

**Surf with music: **I didn't intend to make the Erik-not-eating thing a big deal, since it's just a part of the book(s) that he doesn't eat, but you gave me a great idea.

**Valandah:** Um, yes I realize it's very cruel to say I'm glad you cried…How about I say I'm glad you showed such emotional response to the story and so much empathy to the characters:-D

**Kristi le Fantome:** If you need a humor fic after this depressing stuff, may I suggest "Phantom Companions" if you haven't already read it? Or "A Stitch in Time" (—winks— to LenisVox)

**TheWhitePrincess1:** Oh wow your review made me laugh, both because it was funny and I was so happy after reading it! When I read the word "tasteful" I thought "yesssss!" You are much appreciated!

**Mominator:** "Realistic?" Fabulous…another word I was glad to read! Thank you so much for reviewing! I wanted to make sure it wasn't "perfect" and…well, I guess that worked out.

**Artgem04:** I am still swooning/melting/aaawww-ing over the _Dear Frankie _pictures as we speak. Do you remember the Fairy Godmother's song in _Shrek 2_? Not at the end, but when she's just with Fiona...she sings something like, "Nip and tuck, here and there, to land that prince with the perfect hair" and I laughed, thinking about...well...you know. Perfect hair!

**New reviewers? —special bow— You make my week!**

**This chapter is shorter than I had originally written it because I want to stretch out what is left of the story. I still don't know when it will be over. I haven't put it all down on paper (or screen) yet. —sniff— OK this is not the time to get mushy. Onward!**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One, you know.

Erik could not be sure what stirred him in the morning, but a nagging unease seemed to eat at his brain. When he realized he was not in his coffin, but in the other bedroom, with his wife, he figured it was this change which had brought about the sensation of unrest. Incredulous, he looked down at Marguerite. She was asleep and facing the other direction, curled almost into a fetal position. Her long hair had spread out, all he could see but for a small patch of bare back. She seemed relaxed, her breathing even. Wanting her lucid company, but unwilling to wake her, he just watched. After a few moments, he reached over to the bedside table for his mask. He did not want her to see his vileness first thing in the morning.

At the unexpected sound of scratching, Erik started. When a little rusty-brown paw groped in the space under the door, he narrowed his eyes. Then he wondered if Beatrice was hungry. Surely she could not have exhausted the supply of mice and rats already. Perhaps she was used to curling up beside her mistress.

Whether from Erik moving, the cat's noises, or something else entirely, Marguerite stirred and stretched out a little. He did not see her eyes fly open, but she flipped around, sitting up slightly, staring at him for a brief, shocked moment, as though wondering why he was there. Apparently she suffered a momentary lapse of memory. Almost immediately afterward, she got her bearings. As she looked at him, her open eyes began to droop, sleepiness returning to her. She lay back down, a tiny smile playing about her lips.

"Erik," she murmured drowsily, drawing out his name. "I was dreaming."

"What about, my dear?" he asked, humoring her.

Instead of answering him, she frowned at his mask. "You have put it back on."

"All the better for you."

She pressed her lips together before regaining her smile. "I dreamt we were in Saint-Marie, you and I together. It's a beautiful little village, Erik. We were just walking down the street, and…I was so happy." She laid one hand on his cheek. Almost unconsciously, his eyes closed lazily and he leaned into her touch. "You know I'm happy to be anywhere with you. It's just…it was the most pleasant dream I've had in a long, long time."

"I wouldn't have expected you to have one such as that," he said. "Not after last night."

She lost her smile again, and her voice suddenly became a bit hoarse. "I was frightened, Erik. I'm sorry. It was not because of _you_. You were compassionate and gentle, no matter how much it hurt. It's not your fault."

"Nor yours." He leaned down to kiss her cheek, nuzzling the skin just below the edge of her jaw. In her ear, he whispered, "If I had any way of knowing what was to become of the two of us, I wouldn't have ended his life so mercifully. It would have been a long, slow, and very, very painful death." He had to very nearly bite his tongue to keep himself from describing in detail a certain torture he had perfected in Persia, one he decided was suitable for Marcel. Despite the craving for blood that this desire to protect her had restored, he truly wanted to console her, not make her even more terrified of him.

A chill swept through Marguerite, as though Erik blew the North Wind into her ear, spreading it throughout her entire body. Yet his words brought her a sick sort of comfort. Marcel was the only person she had ever wished death upon—and he had received it. Erik was a dark angel, but he was her guardian angel.

"Are you well?" he asked suddenly. He was actually shaking slightly, she noticed, and looking at her so feverishly, the guilt inundated her soul yet again.

"I'm all right," she said, "but I can imagine you're rather frustrated. I don't know if it is any consolation, but just because this condition is my fault doesn't mean I don't despise it as well."

"I never said you were to blame."

Glancing away, she said, "But I am. _Mea culpa_. My fault." She crossed herself. "God forgive me, I am incapable of enjoying His blessings."

He exhaled sharply. "You're _too _Catholic."

"If that were true, we would not be having this conversation _here_." She sighed. "I know you're not a patient man. _Please_ be tolerant with me."

"Milady, I don't think you have any idea how far you have stretched my patience since I met you."

Not fooled by the cool indifference he feigned, she looked at him wryly. She thought of all the things she had done to earn that statement, and knew he was right. Her presence and persistence from the very beginning had been enough to infuriate him. Now neither felt capable of survival without the other. Some women of the more adventurous kind would be proud to have tamed a man such as Erik. Marguerite herself knew it was intrinsically impossible. He would never be broken in, as one would do to a stallion or an ox. She did not hold any sort of reins to control him. She had earned his trust and pledged her loyalty, and to Erik, those were the strongest bonds that could exist between them. It was enough.

Ironic that a year ago, she had worried she would never marry.

"I think," she said, "I might imagine a _few _things I've done to frustrate you." At his nod, she smiled and rested an innocent kiss upon his lips. "But now I've been lying her long enough. I must get up and see to my wifely duties."

Erik really had interest in only one of them, but stayed silent, too curious to find out what else she had in mind. At her pleading, he helped her dress, growing more resentful with each layer of clothing.

Upon realizing she had the idea to make breakfast, he refused to allow it. He would eat little of the meal, if at all, and did not want her wasting her time. Neither did he trust the kitchen skills of a young woman whose mother had tried training her to be an aristocratic wife. He did not tell Marguerite this, of course, and she only accepted his insistence to make _her _breakfast with a disappointed little shrug.

"At least there was a sewing kit in one of the bedroom drawers," she mumbled, and he was again left to wonder what she meant.

* * *

"Thank you, Louise," the Vicomte said to the maid, taking the morning mail from the silver tray she held out. There was a letter addressed to Christine in hasty, feminine writing, and then something that looked like an invitation. The third item was a letter for him. Raoul groaned, seeing the writing was Henri's. Didn't he understand the nuisance he had been to this household? 

He reluctantly opened the envelope. The letter was surprisingly brief and to the point, but as he read it, Raoul felt his body grow colder. His face warmed as blood flowed into it, rendering him rather crimson.

_This cannot be_, he thought. _That blasted Erik!_

Clenching the letter tightly in his hand, Raoul stormed into the dining room where Christine lingered over her late breakfast. Her smile did not even grow halfway before stopping.

"He's at it again!" Raoul fumed.

Christine swallowed her mouthful of toast. Her stomach almost rejected it, for she had a strong suspicion of whom her husband spoke. "Who?"

"The _Opera Ghost!_ I've just received this letter from Henri. Not much luck yet in getting through that damned mirror, but apparently two of the more simple-minded theater workers got themselves into a different part of the basements, and then on to the lake."

"Was Henri with them?"

"No. But they found a body floating in the water. Henri went to speak to Monsieur Gautier again, who apparently begged him to hushed it up until they can discover who he is."

Christine felt very ill. "They don't yet know who?"

"No. The corpse had been…in the lake for quite some time. It's almost unrecognizable." When his wife held her hand over her mouth, turning a bit green, he stepped closer to her. Putting a hand gently on her shoulder, he asked, "Do you know what that means?"

Christine's hand covered his. "Erik truly is dead." _Is this relief or sadness that I feel?_

"_Or_…"

Her eyes went even wider and she looked up at him. "Marcel?"

Raoul nodded. "If his rings were still on…If there was something else to identify him…"

"Dear God," Christine whispered, leaning her head on Raoul's shoulder. _Erik, what have you done now?_ "Is that all Henri said?"

"He's more determined than ever to go down there and find Mademoiselle Gautier. He's quite convinced on his own that it's Marcel, and she had something to do with it."

"But there's no proof," Christine said weakly. _If that is indeed Marcel's body, and if Erik is still alive, then he is responsible_. _Of that I have no doubt_. _But why would he kill Marcel? What did he hold against him? _She glanced up at Raoul again. He was thinking along the exact same lines.

"Marcel could be anywhere in the world, couldn't he?" she asked. "Henri thought he might have abandoned Mademoiselle Gautier, didn't he, based on the way she reacted to his questions?"

"That may also be true," Raoul said. "I will write him a note, ask him to wait a bit before he acts, until the body can be substantially identified."

"There's no need," Christine said, glancing out one of the windows stretching from floor to ceiling. "He's coming up the drive on horseback right now."

* * *

"I don't recall giving you permission to examine my wardrobe," Erik said. 

Marguerite gave him a quick, dark glare before saying, "I don't recall asking for it." As punctuation to her remark, she broke the black thread with her teeth before taking the needle to Erik's jacket. While he was occupied with food he never seemed to consume, she had entered his room, skirting the coffin, and retrieved a few of the shabbier-looking articles from his armoire. For years, he had done well enough for a man, but now it was time for his clothes to get the female attention they needed.

"I shall have to go out and buy buttons," she said. "And cloth. Some of those things need more serious repair, and I could do with another new dress for myself." She smiled at him as he stood and watched her, dumbfounded and seemingly at odds with what to say. Turning back down to the jacket, she added, "This is one of the few things I can actually do nicely. Perhaps, if I obtain the supplies, I shall paint for you as well. I was never terrible at that, either."

_Nothing down here_, he thought. When it was time for them to leave, he wanted no remembrance of this place, save whatever possessions they would take. His _Opera Populaire_ he would cherish forever, but the "home" he had carved for himself five cellars down was not something of which he would keep many fond memories. Besides, the source of most of those memories would still be with him.

It looked as if Marguerite was trying too hard.

"Are you attempting to make amends?" he asked, crossing his arms. "We have, after all, been married—" he glanced at the clock "—a little over twelve hours now. Is this not a time of leisure?" He smirked. "Yet you sit and sew and scold your husband like an accomplished matron." She did not look up, but her hands stopped working. They lay in her lap, atop the dark cloth of the jacket, as if Death had just claimed her.

"Am I not permitted this moment of serenity?" she asked. "Will you blame me as well?" She looked up at him with red, dry eyes and her voice carried a lifeless tone. "I never said you couldn't have me again, Erik. Does it even worry you, where my mind would be? If you don't think about it, you could still find pleasure in the act. You have your rights as a husband. Take them. What does it matter how I _feel _about it?"

Wrinkles appeared on the uncovered half of his forehead. Honestly, she was correct in interpreting the irritation behind his mild teasing, and he began to grasp the greater problem. She thought things could not be as they were before—reading to him as he composed, listening to him play, or hesitantly agreeing to another voice lesson. The months of paltry lessons by her mother in being a wife had resurrected themselves. Now she was bent on doing things for him he had never thought or cared about, and even in bed she appeared to think she was at his service.

"I couldn't do it again," he said, "knowing you loathed every second."

"I told you, I'll try not to."

A red cloth was drawn across his eyes. "I refuse to be something you must _endure!_" She bit her lip and began to sew again, not looking at him. Refusing to be ignored, he snatched the jacket from her hands, the needle still buried somewhere in it, and flung it aside. "I don't want you doing something just because you think you should. You are not my seamstress, you are not my cook, and you are not my whore! You are my _wife_, damn it! I will not have you living as though you'd rather be anywhere else!"

Marguerite blinked her wide eyes in shock, her lips parting. She never realized she had opened a box that held such an enraged scorpion, ready to sting at the slightest offense.

Turning to stare straight ahead, she said, "I'd been so long taught the things I must do for my husband, what he'd expect, what I needed to know to be a high-class woman, the lessons just resurfaced on their own." She bit her lip and looked at him. "But I _want_ to do some of those things for you, Erik. It must have been a long time since you've had someone to take care of you." She smiled a little.

His expression was cynical. "I had no idea Parisian aristocrats trained their daughters like Persian harems train their concubines."


	42. Another Accidental Discovery

**A/N: Oh my gosh there is so little left of this story, it's depressing. Really! I got teary-eyed at work the other day because I thought about it (and I was really bored). Thank you, all my readers! I hope I continue to not disappoint you. Other than that...not much to say about this chapter.**

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

"I should hope I'm more than a royal harlot to you," Marguerite said disdainfully, quickly losing her smile. "You said you _love _me, and it wouldn't matter if…" She looked away, covering her mouth with her hand. 

Erik closed his eyes, mumbling something inaudibly under his breath. "I do," he said aloud, stepping forward to pick up the jacket she had been mending. "Here," he said, handing it to her tentatively. "If you must."

Her expression softened as she looked at the article, but she did not handle it. Glancing at Erik, she said, "I won't touch anything you don't want me to."

Trying his best to disregard the impious irony in her remark, Erik said, "If you're so eager to do this kind of work, by all means take it." At least it made her smile again, to take up the task once more. He stood there for a few minutes before finally saying, after repeating it over and over in his mind, "I would only hope these 'duties' you insist upon will not deprive me of simply partaking of your company."

She looked back up at him, thinking she was beginning to understand. Now how was she expected to find the idea of simply sharing time with him to be unappealing? Putting the jacket aside yet again, she sat up a bit straighter. "Would you like my company now?"

After a pause, he said, "No, I'm going to work." With that, he went over to his desk and took out some paper, ignoring Marguerite's irritated sigh.

She assumed it was music notation paper he was putting a pen to, but he was writing a letter to Madame Giry, requesting—no, _demanding_—her assistance in several areas of business that simply had to be taken care of. After writing a first draft, he moved on to music. He had gotten an idea two days ago, because of Marguerite, actually. He was feverishly putting a poem into melody, one that suited her voice so she would be comfortable singing it aloud. After an unknown amount of time passed, that voice breached his concentration.

"Erik." The word was little more than a whisper, but she was standing close to him and he had to take notice. He quickly moved the papers aside, obscuring them from her view, and looked at her. She held up the jacket. "Make sure it still fits."

He stood up, silently unfolding his vast, thin form. Though automatically intimidated, Marguerite restrained herself from placing one more footstep between them. Despite the differences in their height, she tried to help him put the jacket on, her palms lingering on his back as he adjusted it.

"Still a perfect fit," he said. She had done an excellent job, but he did not say so.

"You're so particular about your appearance," Marguerite said. "I don't think most people would believe that about the Phantom of the Opera." Catching herself, she added, "Though you never do match up to what most people would think about anything."

"Quite right," Erik muttered, taking the jacket off and glancing over it. "I hadn't realized this was in such disrepair. I have not had a chance to maintain much of an adequate wardrobe for several years." Marguerite nodded solemnly and took it from him.

Finally she asked, "Will you play for me?" Nothing soothed her like his music, yet it yielded countless tumultuous sentiments from within herself. She wanted to hear him sing, but since they had just passed through something resembling an argument, she did not want to be demanding.

He was, in fact, relieved to hear her ask. "Of course," he said. "One moment." He disappeared into the back. When he emerged, he carried a violin case. The instrument he removed from it was one of the most beautiful of its kind, lovingly cared for through many years.

"Oh, Erik!" Marguerite gasped. "How wonderful!" Her smile was wide and bright. "I adore the violin. I didn't even know…"

With the bow, he gestured for her to sit at his desk, while he took a seat on the organ bench to commence the first movement of Mozart's Symphony No. 40. He played the violin as he did the organ and his own voice, his fingers moving with such grace and passion that the strings seemed to speak. Perhaps if one listened hard enough, one might hear the actual words. Marguerite hardly breathed or even blinked.

She could not make the music of the night, but she belonged to the man who did. And if he was hers, then so was the music. Knowing this brought her incredible joy.

* * *

"You know I hate repeating myself, yet I ask you again. Why must I become involved? I am no longer a patron of the _Opera Populaire_, and Marcel has a family to see to his remains, if they are indeed his. Tell me, good sir knight, what dragon is this you mean to slay?" 

Henri ran his hands through his hair, his eyes showing signs of offense. "Don't mock me, Raoul. You've been my unfailing confidante in this matter. Can you abandon me now?"

Raoul sighed, no longer bothering to hide his frustration with his friend. "Have you Gautier's permission to search the _Opera Populaire_?"

"Well…yes." Henri paused. "That is, to search for his daughter, I do. But Raoul…I have not been able to uncover the secret behind opening that mirror. Is there no other way?"

Raoul shrugged. He was unwilling to give Henri the same route Madame Giry had shown him before, for it was much more direct. Christine would never forgive him. "How did those men find it?" He was surprised they had managed to reach the lake without tumbling into one of Erik's torture chambers.

_Have you disassembled them, old boy?_ he thought scornfully. _Is the Phantom going soft?_

Henri waved his hand in frustrated dismissal. "Half-wits. I really don't know how they were able to stumble down there in the first place. They couldn't even tell me themselves." He folded his arms and began to pace. "What should I do now? I ask because _you _are the most knowledgeable man I know when it comes to retrieving a lady," Henri said, only half-ironically, for that truly was his reason.

"Henri, that was six years ago. And please don't speak of Christine as though she were a lost glove." _Or a scarf_… Raoul turned and moved toward the windows, looking out at the side lawn of the ever-impressive de Chagny estate. He and Christine would have to go horseback riding when Henri left. It was a beautiful, sunny day, the perfect weather for it. "I'd rather forget the whole thing, and she is with me in the matter."

The younger man held up his hands in mock self-defense. "Forgive me, Monsieur le Vicomte. I don't really mean to remind you of unpleasant events. But since you were _successful_ in them…"

"Henri, it seems to me—mind you, just to me—that you are bordering on obsession with this young lady." _And in this,_ he inadvertently shuddered, _you are becoming quite like Erik himself_.

Once again, Henri looked slightly affronted. "But Raoul, I told you I've always been fond of her. Our fathers are friends, and…I'm afraid Marcel might have treated her rather cruelly, and then perhaps given her reason to…Come now, you know all this! I've told you."

"Yes," Raoul said with a resigned nod, "you have told me everything." He shrugged. "And I…I have nothing new to tell _you_. Except perhaps you ought to do nothing at all until that corpse is properly identified. If it is indeed Marcel, well…you ought not to be quick in accusing the mademoiselle anyway. And if it is someone else…that will lead to a whole other set of problems, now, won't it? And you will still be wanting to find her."

* * *

An afternoon nap was part of the wealthy routine Marguerite could not let go of. Upon waking, she was disappointed to find herself alone. But then, Erik needed far less sleep than the average human being. It was a habit that would surely not be altered just for her. Still, even after one night she was displeased at being the only person in the bed. She glanced at herself in the mirror at the vanity and quickly ran a brush though her hair before leaving the room. 

Erik was in his private chambers, his tomb, his _laboratory_, and had not come out for quite some time. She glanced around the main room, her eyes skimming over the desk, the organ, and the boat as she wondered whether or not she should interrupt him. Her stomach growled, and she pressed her hand to it resentfully. It was difficult to tell time using _only_ the clock on the wall. She was so used to looking out a window at the sky, or watching the people in the street to see what activities absorbed their moments. She imagined the sun was not so bright now, that it was soon time to prepare an evening meal.

She stared at the kitchen door for a few minutes before finally stepping through it. Constantly looking over her shoulder, she explored the room until she found enough to make a soup. Holding her breath, she waited for Erik to burst in, furious. She set the pot to boiling and peeked outside, but he was still otherwise engaged. Yes, she would have to get used to him disappearing unpredictably, at all times of the day.

The desk in the far corner looked no different than before, but it weighed heavily on her mind. She decided, with a slight tightening to her breath, to write that letter to her family. She would inform them of her new…situation. She sighed and opened a drawer in a search for stationery.

Her heart jumped into her throat when she saw the dagger—a curved, exotic weapon with small jewels set in the handle. What a frightening, deadly-looking thing! She had never seen anything like it in France. Erik must have acquired it in Persia. She remembered those times long ago, back when he had actually threatened her, and a tremor passed through her. Afraid to touch the weapon, she swallowed and closed the drawer to open the next.

She was just about to shut the second drawer when a glimmer inside caught her eye. Opening it wide, she saw a ring in the very back. Several diamonds surrounded a great ruby, arranged into the shape of a gorgeous, almost garish flower.

With a glance at her own plain band, she warily reached inside and picked up the piece of jewelry. Even in the dim light, it sparkled brightly. The temptation to try it on was fierce, but somehow she could not. Instead, she slipped off her wedding ring and held it against the other. There was a marked difference between the two, with hers the smaller one. She always did have tiny hands.

_Christine_.

That name had been a curse to Marguerite from the beginning! Had Erik purchased this ring for her? Even with immense savings, he could not possibly afford such a luxurious gift. The Vicomte de Chagny was certainly capable. Was it stolen property? What was Erik doing with an expensive little thing like this just shut up in a drawer?

It was Christine's. It had to be.

Why?

Her gaze was locked on the ring's stones, and after sliding hers back onto her finger, she stared at the other, holding it in her palm. It was decidedly heavy. Such a beautiful thing she had not seen since attending wealthy parties months ago. She herself had never worn jewelry so elaborate. Her mind wandered into painful territory, her brow wrinkling and her chin trembling. _Stop being such a baby_, she told herself.

What was she to think of finding this? Moreover, what was she to ask of Erik regarding it?

The question was readily answered for her.

Erik stepped into the room unheard, at which he was infuriatingly proficient. Marguerite was nearly hypnotized by the trinket, but as her back was turned to him, he could not actually see what was in her hand. The open drawer, however, did not escape him. He swore under his breath. He felt like an escaped convict nearing imminent capture, and it put him on the defensive. No longer caring to be noiseless, he advanced on her heatedly.

"What are you _doing?_"

Turning around, Marguerite made an unfeminine croaking noise, as if she could not decide whether to scream or to gasp. When Erik roughly tore the ring from her hands, she huffed indignantly, but painfully.

"A relic of your own saint, Erik?" she asked.

"Leave it alone," he said, the ring enclosed in his fist. "Leave my things alone, you nosy woman!" He threw it back into the drawer. He slammed it shut and leaned against it as if she would instantly attempt to retrieve it. "Eve herself was not so curious when she ate the forbidden fruit!"

"I highly doubt I have doomed the entire human race. I just want to know what my _husband_ was doing with such an item."

"It is no concern of yours."

"Of course it is. Is this not my home now, as well?"

He narrowed his eyes, his tension visible in his neck muscles. "A keepsake. Nothing more. Are you satisfied?"

Marguerite shook her head, her eyes alight. "Don't lie to me. You may be a great genius, but I'm not stupid! You said that I'm not in third place, that Christine never really saw you as a man. Erik, you have my unfailing devotion. Is it so unfathomable that I ask for yours, as well? Did you not pledge it to me when we married?" She had gone into some kind of trance last night, actually. He could have vowed anything, and she didn't remember it.

When he said nothing and looked away, her fury only increased. Tears poured down, hot and angry tears. Her attractive face contorted with rage, and Erik secretly marveled at the transformation. She mistook his guilt for merely stubbornness, and spoke up again.

"She's not here, Erik! She's—not—here!" Gritting her teeth, she grasped his shirt and yanked him closer. "_I'm_ here! _I'm_ you wife. _I _am the one who loves you!" Not sure whether she wanted to weep on his shoulder or murder him, she reached up a hand and pulled his head down, bringing their lips together.

Erik did not have a moment of shock and hesitation this time, almost as if he had expected it. Letting himself go, he returned the kiss, his hands digging into her hair momentarily before he slid them down her back, pressing her against him. He kissed her again to keep her from talking, and when his lips moved to her neck, she finally dragged air into her lungs.

"I sold my own jewelry to live without you," she whispered. "Would you sell this, so I may remain?" Apparently he couldn't distract her from something this heavy on her mind.

"I shall think on it," he said into her hair, his hands moving to her torso, and she sucked in her breath. "I can still feel your ribs. We shall have to remedy that."

_My nerves might have been bothering me lately,_ Marguerite thought dryly.

For another few moments, neither of them spoke. Erik's mind tortured himself over his love and desire for Marguerite, and his agonizing memories of unattainable Christine. Marguerite held fast to him, engulfed in the sensations of his hands and his lips on her body, all the while wondering how anything was to be solved. The one thing she knew—she couldn't let him go…she would _never _let him go.

"Erik…" she murmured for no reason in particular, other than wanting to say it. He paused a second before leaning back from her.

"My apologies, Madame," he said gruffly, remembering her condition. Marguerite was now the one frustrated. So the tables were turning, were they, just when she was thinking Erik had begun to understand. Wondering, once again, what to do, she watched his face, his eyes, until she became aware of a hissing sound from the direction of the kitchen. The soup!

She gasped and tore herself from his arms to dash across the room and through the doorway, just saving it from boiling over. She found two bowls—slightly surprised and unnerved to find two of anything in Erik's house. Well, they would make good use of them now. Unable to find a ladle, she slowly spooned out the soup and set the bowls on the small table there. She went back out, only to find Erik gone again.

Without hesitating, she stormed into his room, not bothering to knock. He looked up in surprise from fiddling with something on a shelf, one of his inventions.

"Come have some supper," she said, gently and yet demanding.

He sighed. "I find it tedious to eat so many times in a day when there are various other things to do instead." His eyes burned into her face, and he added, "Nor do I think I can partake of a meal that interrupted such an _evocative_ moment a short while ago."

"I'm not going to let you continue to starve yourself. Besides, I'm absolutely sick of eating alone." She squinted at him. "And you can't let all my hard work go to waste, can you?"

"You need never cook for me," he said. "It would be such a terrible squandering of time."

"Well, I just did, so come on, then."

He took up another small configuration of wiring and glass. When he touched one end with another wire, it sparked. Marguerite jumped, but Erik made no sudden movements of surprise. He knew these instruments well by now. "I will eat when I have no other choice."

"Well, that time is _now_.I'm not giving you a choice. I'm _telling _you to come and eat this supper I've made for us!"

He turned back to her, his eyes now furious. "No one orders me about! Stop trying to be a mother!"

Marguerite pursed her lips together, staring venomously at him. "All right then," she said, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do." Instead of speaking another word, however, she turned on her heel and stomped back into the outer room and then the kitchen. It was only a few seconds before Erik's curiosity caught up with him, and he followed her. She poured the soup from the bowls back into the pot, then picked up the pot and stormed out of the kitchen. Before his very eyes, she dumped the contents into the lake. He watched the thick, yellowish cloud form in the water, the vegetables dispersing.

"What was that for?"

"It's all or nothing, Erik. As long as you can go without, so can I! Until you agree to eat, which I've _never _seen you do, then I, too, will not swallow one bite."

He laughed, thinking she would endure it perhaps for a day before giving in again. "You'll never survive that way."

"Well, not without food, no, eventually I will not. But I will follow your routine. If you can do it, then I can as well. Just one more thing we can enjoy _together_." She smiled that nauseatingly sweet smile she reserved for her most obstinate, sarcastic moments.

Still not taking her completely seriously, he grinned. "As you wish, my dear. It will be amusing to see how long this lasts." His smile froze, and he wondered how long she really _could_ last. She had lost too much weight, especially in the past few months, and she _was _incredibly stubborn as well. Could she possibly drive herself mad with hunger?

"We shall find out, won't we?" Marguerite said, glancing at the desk. She would have to play the part of the nagging wife for a little while longer. Otherwise, they were getting nowhere fast. With so many things occurring, it was not a good way to travel. "Are you keeping that ring?"

"I have a weakness for lovely things," he said. He would have been only too happy to change the subject, but not to this. "Why should I dispose of it?"

"Because of what it represents. It's a part of your life that doesn't exist anymore. When you tell me you love me, Erik, I believe you. I don't know if you still love _her_. I don't _want _to know. But I can't be blamed for hoping you'd at least have enough regard to remove any evidence of it, at least for my sake!"

He tilted his chin upward slightly. "When you have exorcised your demons, my darling bride, then I shall part with mine."

Marguerite closed her eyes and turned away, wounded but not surprised. "Touché," she said, picking up a book she had left on the couch and retreating to the bedroom.

Erik watched her go, furious heat crawling into his bloodstream, ruthlessly rebuking him for his heartless words. Shaking with rage at himself, he poured it into composing, making the music far darker than he had intended.


	43. Reconciliation

**A/N: Nothing really to say here, honestly…Take a deep breath and enjoy. I better get some good reviews for this one! ;-)**

**The chapter is a lot shorter than they've normally been lately, and it's because I would have otherwise had to abruptly change the mood and make it way too long. So for those of you who don't want this story to end, be grateful. And those who want me to speed it up a little (you know who you are), well too bad for you, just savor the moment, okay?**

Disclaimer: If you don't realize that there are characters in this story that aren't originally mine, we have a problem.

* * *

She read until the candles in the room burned to little more than stubs, and then changed into her white nightgown and crawled between the covers. She refused to cry, yet inwardly reproved herself for being so childish as a woman and inadequate as a wife. Hopefully she would learn as time went on. For the moment, with her husband outside the room and herself curled up in bed, cold and alone, hope seemed mightily elusive. 

_I hate you_, she thought. _Are you there, still? Can you hear these thoughts? I despise you_. _I wish I could have killed you myself_.

_Then what a muddle you would be in!_

Somehow the thoughts of him were distant, less frightening, less real. Were her present concerns for Erik possibly overpowering her old fear of Marcel? The memories he had sown were as vivid and painful as ever, but his lingering spirit in her mind seemed to be fading.

_I don't want you spoiling anything else in my life_, her brain went on. _You're dead, and you can't do anything to me_. _Surely if you were alive, you would, but you aren't_. _Even when you were alive, you didn't do as much damage as I know you could have_. She actually smiled. _You have no power over me!_

_Just you wait_…

But she ignored it. True, she was alone in the bedroom, but she was _alone!_ There was nothing else there watching her, and haunting her. _Except God_, she thought guiltily. _Please, make him go away forever_, she prayed. _You should know best of all that he deserved death_.

It was the most peaceful she had felt in a long time. Unfortunately, it did not last long. She wanted to tell Erik, yet feared approaching him, unsure of how much he was still upset with her. She couldn't take back what she had said—she meant it all, though it was difficult. She waited for him to come in, but he did not, and eventually she grew weary. Sleepy but restless, she finally got up and put on a robe.

Opening the door, she heard no music. Had he returned to sleep in his coffin this night? What a slap in the face! But no, going down the corridor, she saw his dark shape walking back and forth across the floor, light from only a few candles cast over him. The dark lake seemed either tranquil or sinister; she could not decide which.

Marguerite wrapped the robe tighter around herself. "Erik? Please…get some sleep. You're going to drive me mad if I must see you like this." He continued to pace, his hands clenching and unclenching, his face tight in concentration. Finally, as though her words had taken a long time to process in his mind, he stopped and spoke to her.

"I cannot rest now," he said tersely. "I have put this piece down on paper, and there is something wrong with it."

"Can you not fix it in the morning?"

"No! I will not allow myself respite until I am satisfied!" He noticed her cringe, and his voice softened. "Do not concern yourself, Marguerite. I'll complete it soon."

Marguerite watched him move in what seemed like physical agony. After another two minutes or so, she nodded and returned to bed. She could only doze, her sleep kept troubled by worry about Erik, and a dangerously empty stomach. Her thoughts were torn between the two, and she was completely unsure which she wanted most.

After a length of time her unconscious perceived a stirring in the bed beside her. When it was still, she moved closer to Erik. From behind the veil of light sleep, she heard him inhale sharply and lay awkwardly before he, too, relaxed.

* * *

"No…_ Mon dieu_, just leave me alone…" 

The voice seemed to dance on the very edge of Marguerite's muddled dreams, but they did not mesh. Her mind became aware of the world again, and she realized the voice was real, and it belonged to Erik. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, pierced by only a few sparse candles. Eventually she beheld his unmasked face—the sight of which once again shook her, if only for a moment—the mouth working as though disgusted, the eyes moving rapidly behind their lids, and the cold sweat which coated his whole body. "Get back…Get back, or you'll fall…"

"Erik?" she whispered uneasily. He only moaned. "_Please_ wake up," she pleaded. _I'm so sorry for what I said! God, let him be all right_.

One delicate hand extended toward his shoulder to wake him and relieve him of whatever distress his mind was forcing him to endure. Gently she prodded him, to no avail. She touched him a second time, and another hand, much larger and frightfully thin, clamped onto her wrist with an iron grip. She shrank back far as she could, while being restrained, as Erik's eyes flew open and he sat up. Now it was he who looked at her as though he didn't know her, his green eyes strangely clouded, even in the darkness. He did not release her arm.

"You must have been having a bad dream," she said, as though to an insane person who might not completely comprehend what was spoken.

Realization came to him, and he let go of her wrist, covering his face with his hands. He made not a sound, he did not speak a single word as he returned to a reclining position. Staring blankly at the canopy, he appeared terribly distressed.

"Erik, all is well…Do you need anything?" She took one of his hands and stroked the palm. _My love, I'll do anything to comfort you_. "I'm sorry I had to wake you, but you looked so upset. You were talking in your sleep."

His head turned to her sharply. "What did I say?"

" 'Get back, or you'll fall.' " she repeated, waiting for him to explain. He only sighed and looked away again. "Is there _anything _I can do?"

Swallowing, Erik did not answer her question. Instead, he murmured, "He wanted to kill me."

"Who?"

"Giovanni…the stonemason who trained me in Italy. He took me in as his own son." The words were choked and difficult to pronounce. His heart ached with the painful memories, dredged up by the stresses of the day and haunting his sleep.

His beautiful voice was chillingly flat as he recounted the horrible events that had come to him, hardly speaking to Marguerite so much as himself. "His daughter saw my face on the terrace…She was so horrified she tried to run away, but…the stone was weak and it crumbled beneath her. She died when…"

He swallowed. "Giovanni hated me then. Before, he showed me nothing but love and trust…and I killed his daughter." He groaned and shook his head. "I have not thought of it in years, but it's always there."

"I'm so sorry Erik," Marguerite said, her voice tearful. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then rested her head upon his chest. "But that can't have been your fault."

"It may as well."

"Then you must forgive yourself," she said. "You'll lose your senses…and I wouldn't know what to do. I still need you, _mon ami_."

Her heart tightened and ached as though a snake had coiled around it. She had become so involved in her own hateful memories and afflictions, she had forgotten how much grief Erik must contain in his boundless mind. Each and every day, he was weighed down by the years of cruelties by humanity, and the burden of being such a genius, yet unable to share his creations to the hostile world that had beaten him off until he had shut himself away from it all. Good lord, why did she have to add to them? She loved him so much, yet at the end of the day, it seemed all she had to offer were words, and sometimes not even that.

She couldn't put this distance between them, though she knew it had been slightly growing. A slithering vine was branching out and crumbling the mortar that held them together, and what was she doing about it? Taking a chisel herself and helping to break away bits of it—that was what she was doing. Weren't there some things that were _not _fighting over? Hadn't she learned to choose her battles? It had taken so long to gain any sort of respect, trust, and _love _from this man. How much longer before his patience would be at an end? Especially with this torment that she now knew came to him in the night.

Looking down at him, she found it hard to breathe. _I can't bear to see you suffer, Erik_. _I'd die to free you from this_. _My husband—my angel—forgive me all the misery I've unintentionally helped to drag you through_. _Dear God, I don't think I'll ever conceive just how much I've put you through_.

Out loud, she said, "Erik, beloved, try to go back to sleep."

"To be plagued with nightmares? No, thank you, I'd rather not."

Marguerite stroked his lined forehead until it was smooth. Holding his face between her hands, she moved forward and kissed him as she had before, slowly, opening her mouth a little to taste him. In no time at all he responded, returning the gesture and sitting up, turning so she was slightly beneath him. When the warmth inside her became too much, she gently broke away.

"_No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears_._ I'm here, nothing can harm you_;_ my words will warm and calm you_…" Erik cupped the back of her head with one hand, and she felt his touch like a current.

"Sometimes, it takes more than words."

A surge of wanting went through her, almost so strong that she was not sure if her body could hold it. It was too much—but not too soon.

He was staring into her eyes, expecting the light to die out. But Marguerite took a deep breath and, knowing she must have been blushing madly, drew her nightgown over her head. Discarding it on the floor, she had only the briefest moment of shivering in the room's chill before Erik drew her close and began to kiss her bare shoulders.

"All I am is yours," she murmured, wrapping her arms around him. He drew back and looked down at her, his eyes so full she could not read any specific emotions. He kissed her again, one hand behind her head and the other sliding down her arm and moving to her waist. After that, Marguerite just gave up on trying to speak.

Even quivering under the bliss of Erik's touch, she braced herself against the pain she was sure would envelope her. To her surprise, it never came. The solace she had so long yearned for was given to her. His fingers were like matches to a dry forest, wine to her heart. She felt a curious dizziness, which dissolved into a moment in which she swore she had come to the gates of Heaven itself. She focused her mind on Erik and held onto him tightly, anxiously watching his eyes. For that time, there was no one else in the world but the two of them.

Erik curbed his more forceful instincts and maintained a somewhat gentlemanly composure, aware that Marguerite had already known enough fear. He saw the look on her face and knew, in the battle of her mind, he had emerged the victor. Though she, too, had prevailed—being the one to provide the comfort and the devotion he constantly desired but had never possessed. No one had cared; no one had loved him like this. This woman did not know how fine a grip she held on his heart. And even if she did know, she would not use it against him, no matter how often she let her tongue get too angry.

Her upper teeth had been digging into her lip, but at last she smiled, and it shone in her eyes, as well. He would kill to see her smile like that again, if he had to. Yet there was still that incessant unease in knowing this woman now possessed him, and so easily she could break him. Eventually, he had learned, a fantasy could dull and dissolve. Not so for this—he had really and truly given everything he had to Marguerite. Yet she seemed unaware of the power she held, and Erik knew she was in the same situation, even more so than he because she lacked his physical strength. _Fortunately_, he thought.

Her temper more than made up for that.

He _loved _her, and still was so amazed she could love him at all. Perhaps there were miracles at work in the world, though if they were by the same God who had created Erik with this face…he didn't want to know about it.

"I hope this takes away your nightmares," Marguerite said, smiling her sweetest smile without sarcasm. One hand glided up his back. "This feels right," she added. She bit her lip again, looking timid, almost embarrassed. "Erik, I love you, and…I need you so much." She closed her eyes. "Do you need me?"

After several moments she opened them again. He looked down at her and at last said, "Yes…I need you." _You couldn't possibly know how much_. Marguerite started to smile again, but only got halfway through when her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. Her fingers suddenly dug into his shoulder, the feeling of pain sharply contrasting with that of pleasure. All his adult life Erik had only imagined having this effect on a woman.

When it was over they held on, warming each other and soothing broken hearts. He lay beside Marguerite, gathering her into his arms. She continued to cling to him, crying softly, while he sincerely hoped they were happy tears.

_God, why couldn't I have met her ten years ago?_ Anytime, really, sooner than it had been…twenty…thirty. He wished he had known her his whole life. Maybe his past would not have been quite so unearthly miserable.

Still silent, Marguerite fell back to sleep, buried against him. Just before drifting off, she groggily registered the sensation of dampness on her shoulder. Were she with anyone else…she might have thought they were tears.


	44. The Mirror

**A/N: This chapter is one of the longer ones, with a lot of emotions and so on crammed into it.I know Erik's been leaning more toward being Kay Erik lately, and I think it's just because he's revealing more of his past to Marguerite. My favorite depiction of his childhood and so on (except Christine and forward) is in Kay's book, so that's why it must seem that way. But if you like to picture him as _looking like_ Gerry Erik, well you're pretty much with me on that one!**

**If anyone wants to chat about anything fanfiction or _Phantom_ related (or Gerry, come to think of it…and last night I watched _Attila _for the first time…), I have a new screenname on AIM: Marianne1Brandon.**

**Phantom4753: **Thanks for the message! I'm glad you're both reviewing (or going to)!

**Artgem04: **I got this really hilarious image of Gerry perched on a sundae, floating on the whipped cream. Can you do anything w/ Photoshop for that?

**LenisVox:** Muddle! Hahaha it truly is a great word, isn't it?

**Nade-Naberrie: **So when are we going to do that chatroom thing? I'm dying to find out just how "famous" I am in California! Well of course not only that but I want to meet more psycho Phantom phans!

**Gothamin:** —sigh— You are the first person to tell me to speed it up! Are you that eager for it to be over? ;-)

**TheWhitePrincess1:** I completely forgot to tell you that yes, you absolutely have permission to post that one line you loved from chapter 41 (as long as you don't —cough— plagiarize!). And you must tell me…what's the "Lion King Grin" you used?

Disclaimer: See Chapter One

* * *

Marguerite's mind opened, stretched, and yawned before her body did. Physically, she stayed slightly curled, her eyes closed, savoring her last few moments of warmth. Last night…Thinking about it made her face grow hot all over again, though her heart and mind felt clearer for it. After all Erik had lived through, how could _she _be the one to ultimately comfort him? It was unfathomable, almost, and yet here she was. 

Her neck felt stiff. Slowly she turned over, and her heart jumped into her throat to see Erik. His eyes were open; he had been watching her. A peculiar, tickling chill worked its way up her spine.

"Good morning," he said. Of course he would never be plagued with a voice that grated in the very beginning of the day. When Marguerite shyly returned the salutation, her voice rasped.

"How do you feel?"

"Quite alive," he answered.

She smiled. "Erik, I don't know how I survived without you. My life was so dreary."

"Yes," he said dryly, "because I am the epitome of any young woman's dream."

"Mine, anyway," she said, her smile widening. "I am completely sincere. I can't imagine being with anyone else. When I think of what might have happened if I had never come here with my father that day…I don't know. But it's sad to think about." She paused to think, her facial expression slacking, and her voice deepened slightly. "Well, at the time I certainly did not think so."

Erik thought back over a year of strange events. He had threatened her, kidnapped her, and blackmailed her, and, he was quite sure, caused a few vividly unpleasant dreams. Then here they were…married. She wanted to be with him the rest of her life? Good lord, the woman must love abuse. Marcel came to mind, and Erik wondered if the man would not have harmed Marguerite if it weren't for Erik and his damned orders. Yes, she had developed love for him, but most likely would not be able to forgive him. Erik lacked the means to ignore a nagging feeling that none of this was going to last very long. There was no reason, of course, that he should think so. It just would not leave him.

Marguerite's face looked as though someone had drawn a thin veil across it. Her eyes had a faraway quality. Erik's brow wrinkled. "Is something wrong?" She had been looking away from him to think, but then slowly slid her gaze back to him.

"I have to write to my family and tell them. I've been married almost two days, and they don't know."

His face turned into a scowl. "They don't need to know. _They _disowned _you_."

Distressed, she rubbed her forehead. "I just can't imagine continuing to live here, right under his opera house"—she saw the expression on Erik's face and sighed—"_your_ opera house, without him knowing anything. Not that I have to tell him _where_ we are. And my mother…I don't care how much she had to do with it or how selfish she has been or how angry she was—is. She _will_ wonder where I am and how I fare, until her dying day."

Still, he looked positively disgusted. "Then they should seek _you _out."

The one shoulder she was not laying on Marguerite moved in a shrug. "For all I know, they could be."

Erik did not want to disappoint her, but he had not ceased to prowl the opera house, still keeping watch over his domain. Gautier's office was one of his frequent stops, and he had never heard the man speak of his daughter. Awful brute! Erik thought of his own mother and wondered how Marguerite's parents would have treated her if she had been born with the same affliction as he. But a perfectly lovely daughter, who had done nothing but try to save his skin when God knows he really should just be found and hanged for what he had done. Not for killing Marcel, no—anyone could have seen he had deserved it. For everything else, however…yes, he really should hang. Not that he would give himself up or anything foolish like that. With a smirk he thought of how he had more reason now than ever to avoid capture. He was no longer alone.

"So then you've forgiven them," he said flatly.

She shut her eyes, pressing her lips together. Her throat felt on fire. "No," she said. "But I still think I should write…Perhaps they'd feel sufficiently guilty about it all."

"And then take you back?"

She looked appalled. "Erik, no! Not in the least." She inched closer to kiss him near his collarbone. "I'm never leaving you again." She smiled again, though the tears still shone on her eyelids. "I couldn't imagine you living in my parents' home in Paris' wealthiest district. Not that you _deserve _to live like a mole, but you just would not fit in, for all your fastidiousness in appearance." His expression turned fierce, and for a moment, she blanched. "I didn't mean your face. I…I just meant…the way you _are_. Not that you aren't perfectly civilized…it's just…" What was she thinking? _Shut up!_ "Though I'm sure they'd find your mask quite fascinating."

"Yes," he agreed, "so did the Gypsies." He sounded so bitter, Marguerite wished she hadn't said anything. She leaned her forehead against his chest, trying to think of something else to say, to take the conversation in a different direction. She was perfectly content to stay there for the moment, but the atmosphere was badly tense.

"Tell me about your time in Persia, Erik. What was that like?"

At first Erik recoiled at the memories of the place—the sultana's depravity, the lust for blood, the humiliating deference toward the shah—and Erik's tortures, his hand in it all. With the constant need for more creative methods of shedding blood and prolonging agony, his mind saw its darkest days in Persia. Still, he put forth the effort and dug deep into his memories for something more pleasant. Using his voice to its best effect, he described in detail the palace he had designed, the exotic animals, the diverse smells, and the fascinating foods. He told Marguerite about Nadir and his son, Reza, and the shah's innumerable precious cats. Left out were details of like Reza's death, the ever-present haze of opium, and Erik's dangerous flight from Persia.

Her face was alight with fascination, and she listened intently, asking only a few questions. He expected her to say "Let's go there," but she did not. Thank God.

"It sounds like such an exciting place," she said instead.

Yes, well, that was one word for it.

"I think I'm going to bathe," she added, "and then write that letter." She turned over, and as she sat up, her stomach growled loudly. Glancing guiltily at Erik, she saw he was not bothering to hold back his smirk. She kept silent, holding her head high as she went into the bathroom.

The hunger pains were immense. At one point, stepping out of the bathtub, she doubled over, almost slipping. She gulped down some water before leaving the room, wrapped in her robe. Erik was dressed, mask and all, and writing at the organ when she came back.

"I need help dressing," she said weakly, not because she was trying to appear submissive, but because she was afraid she would truly faint if she spoke louder than a mumble. "I can't tie the corset properly myself."

His gaze moved over her and he said, not without some wit, "You look perfectly all right as you are."

"Erik, please…"

An almost unreadable expression flashed across his face, and Marguerite wondered if he hadn't guessed exactly what was wrong with her. Damn his acuity! Even if he said nothing, it was still maddening.

"Very well," he said, getting up and going back into the bedroom. Why she blushed at once again donning all her clothing in front of him, Marguerite had no idea. When the task was complete, she then had shortness of breath on top of the powerful hunger. She pinched her cheeks to put some color into them and then stood up. Very promptly she collapsed again. The floor had swiftly tilted up and slammed into knees that were frail as sand. Her brains seemed to be floating right out of her skull. Shaking her head, she sat up before feeling herself pulled up by her hands.

"What just happened?" Erik asked sharply.

"I'm all right," she answered a little too quickly, still lightheaded although standing straight. "I _will _be in a moment. Perhaps you've laced me just a bit too tightly."

"No more than yesterday, and _this _didn't happen."

"I know, but…Well, it's nothing, really." And nothing is what else he said about it, though he glared intensely. She tried to ignore it by asking, "May I use some stationery?"

He snorted at the humble way she asked, realizing she was trying to coax him away from a topic she did not want to talk about. "I'll _show _you where it is so you won't have to poke around next time."

_He must not have gotten rid of the ring, then,_ she thought sadly. As she sat at the desk to think and compose the letter, Erik did not go back to the organ, but picked up the violin. The bittersweet tune pervaded her mind for a time, preventing her from writing anything rational. Finally she took a deep breath and dipped the pen into ink. Her second correspondence with her family in months. She would have to be completely honest—but not honestly complete.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_Perhaps this letter is long overdue, for I must correct some false implications which I had purposely established. Marcel D'Aubigne and I did not leave Paris together, as could have been derived from my last letter. I have not seen him in months. However, I have for but two days been wed to a man I had met shortly after we first moved to Paris. I know for sure you have not made his acquaintance, and I have no need nor wish to reveal his identity to you now._

_Some time ago, I came to your house. Though you were not present at the time, by your orders I was refused entrance. I regret that my dishonesty has brought about this outcome. In whether circumstances will remain as they are, I shall place it all upon your judgment. Whatever may come, I remain,_

_Your Daughter,_

_Marguerite_

A slight explanation…a bit of a confession…some new information…and something just shy of an apology. It was just about the best she could do. Yet she sat and stared at the letter for several more minutes, not even reading it, while Erik played on. For the moment, they seemed oblivious to each others' existence.

"They must have been furious with me," she said, just after the music came to a conclusion. Her voice blended with the last echoing notes. Erik lowered the instrument, watching her until she actually turned her head to look at him. "Their one surviving child," she said resentfully. "I'm sure they would have preferred one of my brothers. Or my sister, at least, might have grown into the charming beauty that would have made them proud."

Erik was once again struck by the similarities of their familial backgrounds…Though, of course, he was still convinced he had suffered the worst of everything. _This face, which earned a mother's fear and loathing_…_A mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing_… He had seen Nadir and Reza; he had seen the love Christine had for her father, in the way she missed him; he had seen Madame Giry interact with her daughter, Meg. Perhaps his mother's cruelties and coldness were of an unusual sort. Obviously not as unusual as he would have hoped. Poor Marguerite—and especially at a point in her life, newly married, when she would be desiring a mother's warm council more than ever. She had practically said so herself. _I wish I could have had family there_.

It was too much to see her this way, almost lifeless. He said, "Perhaps they ought to be glad _one _child survived, and cherished you all the more."

She smiled sadly. "Thank you." Finally she folded the paper and put it into an envelope. "I'll just…I suppose I could take this by his office, but I'm afraid of running into him."

"I'll take it. I know his hours, and I know this place better than you. I _will _leave it in his office this time."

Marguerite shook her head. "I wanted to call on Katie today—"

"Then go. But give the letter to me, and I'll see it reaches your father."

She heaved an exaggerated sigh and relinquished the letter. Suddenly she felt inspired and jumped up to wrap her arms around Erik's neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Good lord, I love you," she said. "I _had _to tell you."

"You're behaving very strangely, you know."

"Yes, I know. While _you _are the one in formal evening dress in the middle of the morning…you haven't eaten since God knows when…you live under an opera house…and…" On a whim, she reached into the first drawer and pulled out the jeweled dagger. "…You've got a most magnificent and deadly letter-opener. When was the last time you used it? Does the post deliver at the Rue Scribe entrance?"

Erik blinked and shook his head. "You haven't even _visited_ that little ballerina yet, and you're already acting as though drunk."

Marguerite's face fell. "I don't need you to remind me of that, Erik," she said dejectedly. "I promise I will not come back _inebriated_." She smiled in a lame attempt to lighten the mood again. "Not tonight, that is." A little light of realization seemed to glow from within, and her smile became genuine. "Oh, I just now thought…We never did take that evening stroll, did we?" Erik shook his head, his expression once again enigmatic.

"Well, I'm going to pin up my hair and then I'll be off." For whatever reason, she glanced down at his hands, holding the envelope, and then into his wide green eyes, and almost dragged him into the bedroom with her. Somehow, she resisted. Turning to go, she felt a tug on her arm and looked back. He was holding her hand. Her spine itself seemed to quiver as she watched him bring it to his lips.

"Later," was all he said.

He must have learned a few tricks from a Gypsy mind-reader.

In ten minutes, she came out of the bedroom again. Erik had put on his cape, and overall he appeared even taller…almost noble…yet still somehow threatening.

"You look as when I first saw you," she said gravely. "You're quite a frightening sight for a young woman in a dark corridor, did you realize that?"

"I had a vague idea," he said tonelessly, jerking his head toward the boat. "Come on, then."

Marguerite knelt on the floor of the boat and peered over the edge, wondering if she might ever be able to swim in this lake. She trailed one hand in the water and shivered. Ice cold, of course—Erik must not have normal human blood! How else could he stand it?

They parted ways at the chapel, Erik holding back a moment or two, listening to her footsteps which, compared to his swift, silent movements, sounded sluggish and loud. She did her best to stay in the shadows, but unfortunately had not picked up any of Erik's skills in hiding. As she went down the corridor, two men came around the corner far ahead of her, and she ducked through the first door she reached, the sudden movement causing her head to swim again.

The room was completely dark, lacking both windows and lit candles. Marguerite leaned against the closed door and listened. Unfortunately, the two men stopped outside that very same door to talk. She did not strain to hear what they were saying; she did not care. All she wanted was to get to the ballet dormitories undetected.

Eventually the light from the hallway, leaking under the door, helped her eyes adjust. As she moved warily away from the door, she saw another human form, and clapped her hand over her mouth—it was herself. A massive mirror stood on the opposite wall. It was her own reflection she had seen, making her so nervous she almost betrayed her hiding place.

The dressing room was not lavishly decorated, but had definite signs of use. Powdered makeup was sprinkled on the surface of the vanity table, and a handwritten note was stuck in the frame of that mirror. The chair was pushed out, and the flowers in their vase had only just begun to wilt. The wardrobe was barely ajar. The only thing in the room that seemed unusual was the toolbox on the floor, to the left of the great mirror. Its purpose Marguerite could not imagine. Mirrors broke; they could not be repaired.

The men were still talking. Of all the hallways and door in the _Opera Populaire_, they had to choose this one! She went to take a closer look at the mirror, out of curiosity. It was badly smeared with large fingerprints, and both frame and glass were scratched all along the edge. Someone seemed to have been tampering with it, but why? What did a mirror have to hide?

Then the voices were gone, and she tiptoed to the door and tried peeking through the keyhole to make sure. Her hand has just grasped the doorknob when something touched her elbow. She screamed for real this time, whirling around with her fists raised. Fortunately, she dropped them before making contact with the person standing in front of her.

"Erik!" She practically slapped herself in the heart when she placed her hand there. "How did you do that? Where _were_ you?"

Instead of answering her, he turned around to peer at the mirror. "How did they know it's the mirror?" he said, almost under his breath.

"What are you talking about?" Marguerite followed his gaze and saw it was now open just the slightest bit. "Erik, you came through that _mirror?_"

When he looked at her again, he had to suppress a sudden grin. Her eyes were wide open and confused, her lips parted. Her expression was reminiscent of Christine. However…he was _not _about to tell her it was Christine's old dressing room they were now standing in.

"I did. A special door I designed, and I challenge anyone to find the mechanism that opens it." He twisted his neck back around to glare at it again, and the toolbox beside it. "Apparently _someone_ feels he is up to the challenge."

"Do you know who it could be?" Marguerite asked, feeling more than a little alarmed. If there was someone trying to get into their home…There would never again be another easy moment there. Was nothing sacred? Obviously someone they could not trust knew about Erik, knew he was still alive. Madame Giry…Katie…the priest who had married them…Monsieur Bontecou at the bookstore. Still, the priest and Bontecou did not know Erik was the Phantom of the Opera. But what of Marguerite's own father? No, he had always refused to believe in the Opera Ghost. Any number of people could have seen them, she surmised. Yet she had always trusted Erik to be constantly cautious and watchful. Hang it all, he was an expert!

But even Marguerite had not known the mirror existed, much less as a passageway. Who else could possibly know about it?

She had a terrible vision of Christine returning to tell Erik she was wrong, that she was sorry. After seeing him that Mardi Gras night, she could not stop thinking about him. Her life was different, too awfully different, without him. Is there any way he could forgive her? Could he possibly take her back if she left Raoul de Chagny? It was all a highly unlikely occurrence, but what if it _would _actually happen? Erik would probably not—hopefully not—renege on the sacred agreement they had made. And Christine had _wanted _Erik to be with Marguerite. She had all but begged him to learn to love her. How could Christine betray her like this?

She had not, though, that was the thing. Marguerite could breathe easily.

But not too easily.

A new idea came to mind. Had Erik somehow made himself fall in love with her, just because Christine had asked him to? She shook her head, pushing the ridiculous thought from her mind. He had been so strongly set against loving her earlier on, and of her loving him, that there was no way it could have been anything but a change of heart. And perhaps a little of Marguerite's own charm.

Insanity, actually. She possessed insanity, not charm.

Then, there was still an entirely new situation before them—something _real _and screaming for attention—the possibility of discovery. Erik seemed more concerned, which made Marguerite all the more worried, though she was not completely sure she understood all that she had to worry about. She wished she had been even more cautious in moving around the opera house. Of course, there could always be some other reason that someone would fiddle with the mirror. What that reason could be, she did not really know.

Erik was looking at her strangely, with an expression his face had never held before. "What is it?" she asked. Something else clearly bothered him. His teeth were clenched.

"I was just by your father's office. What I saw would not have concerned me, but…" He waved a hand toward the mirror. "_This_ is clearly cause for concern after what I have heard!"

"Erik, _what _are you talking about? What did you _see_?"

He took her hand and led her through the mirror. It slid closed behind them, and Marguerite did not see how Erik made it so. They took an immediate right turn, hurrying down a cold, damp passage in almost total darkness.

"Erik—" she whispered.

"Silence!" he said sharply. "You must—be—silent. You'll see. This may change everything." She nearly chewed off her tongue keeping herself from demanding an explanation. She had an answer soon enough. In another minute they saw light shining up from several slits in the floor, and when they stopped to sit beside it, several voices could be heard. Marguerite then realized exactly where they were.

They were standing above her father's office.

And Marcel's parents were in there with him.


	45. Guide and Guardian

**A/N: La la la, here we go…Oh, I must tell you, according to the translator(s) I use, _Eaux Froides_ means "Cold Waters." Unfortunately, I don't know French, and if my use of it should be corrected, please let me know. Oh, and this can apply to all chapters, really.**

Disclaimer: See Chapters One through _Forty-four!_

* * *

"How can you say that, Jean?" Madame D'Aubigne shrieked. "Of _course_ we will hold him personally responsible! After all, _monsieur_, it is _your _opera house in which our son's body was found!" She sniffled and began to wail. Soon the noise was slightly muffled, as though she held a handkerchief to her mouth. Another male voice murmured something in what must have been intended as a soothing manner, but Marguerite did not catch the words. 

The woman spoke up again, more shrilly than before. "It is not _enough _that we keep it as quiet as possible from the newspapers? You, monsieur, should be _imprisoned!_"

"Monsieur and Madame," said Gautier, his voice clearly shaken, though he tried to keep it cool and controlled, "I really am incapable of telling you just how shocked and disheartened I am, as well."

Marguerite's throat ached. It was the first time she had heard her father's voice since they had arrived at the _Opera Populaire_ for the masquerade ball.

"I cannot imagine how it all occurred," he went on. "I shall, of course, have police looking all throughout this building to find out. Something like this must not happen again."

"Perhaps you should ask that witch of a daughter of yours!" Madame D'Aubigne shouted, her voice breaking from her angry sobs.

"Celine, please—" her husband said.

"If she and M-Marcel were together, wh-why was she not found as well? Because she _escaped! _She escaped, _or _she had something to do with his death in the first place! I _saw her _in the street weeks ago, monsieur, and I told your wife about it. I saw her, and demanded to know where my son was. When I said I would find out no matter what, that I know she seduced him away from his family, she ran away like the guilty harlot she is!"

"_Enough!_" both men snapped, raising their voices above hers.

Marguerite shifted slightly to sit against the wall. The movement caught Erik's eye, and he looked at her. The light coming through the floor created odd patterns on her face, and he could see silent tears cascading down her cheeks. He did not know they would be saying such things! He could not forgive himself if she thought he had dragged her there just so they could listen to these cruelties.

"Henri Laroche told me he saw her working in a bookstore," Gautier said. "He, too, is searching for her. He volunteered whatever information he would find, but I think his intentions are a bit more benevolent than yours, should he find her."

"A very respectable young man," Jean Pierre D'Aubigne said. "He came to our home yesterday afternoon to offer his condolences and his services if ever we have need."

"Yes," said Madame D'Aubigne, "I wonder what a nice boy like Henri Laroche would want with a woman like _her_."

Marguerite finally stood up and ran blindly back to where they had come from, not caring if those below heard her footfalls. She did not think of where she was going, and she could not see a thing. Not surprisingly, she did not get far. Erik quickly caught up and stopped her from progressing. He turned her to face him in the darkness, clasping both her arms. If he were not holding her, she might have fallen over.

"I can't listen anymore! I can't! That horrid, horrid woman…" The weeping harassed her body. "They think it was _I _who killed him! They think I did it…" She dragged in a long, wheezing breath and grasped Erik's waistcoat, leaning her forehead against his chest. "I practically _lied_ to protect _you_, Erik," she hissed. "And look what has happened to me! I've been stripped of my honor and now they think me a seductress and a murderer. _Why?_ _Mon dieu_, I should hate you for this. But I can't…"

She finally took another tearful breath and freed one hand to wipe her eyes. "And Henri is looking for me, God knows why. I never thought he cared much for…Marcel. Although when I saw him at the bookstore, he seemed…very friendly…" She gulped down more air. "So what happens _now?_"

She sounded so hopeless. Was she actually considering giving up, when she had already fought through so much and was, even now, struggling through torrential life alterations? Erik embraced her, sighing through his working nostril and pressing his lips together. "We're safe for now," he said close to her ear. "If anyone actually found my house, I would know."

"But they found his body."

"Another part of the lake, I assure you. It's bigger than you think. It was not near us, and we are not in any _real _danger yet. Even with the mirror. I can make sure it is never opened again."

"Erik…" Marguerite said, her breathing now shallower and panicked. "He said he'd try to come back, and he did! He's turned up again to destroy me. This time, he is not going to fail."

"No," Erik said. "You cannot think so. I _killed_ him, Marguerite! I held him under until the breath stopped and he no longer fought back. I watched it sink. They found a body that _used _to be his. But now, he can do _nothing _to you."

She wiped her eyes again. "I know, Erik, in my heart, but…I'm so afraid." The last three words came out in the barest whisper.

"I know that," he said. "But I also know you're safe enough for the time being. Even so…we'll have to make plans to leave. It is too perilous here."

He swallowed, realizing now it was inevitable that they leave his beloved—and hated—_Opera Populaire_. Practically a work of his own hands, it had been the site of so much pain and pleasure in his life, a place of peaceful seclusion, yet endless heartache. Was it too late to flee and become human again?

Long ago he had told Christine he wanted to, when he asked her to marry him and let him love her as a normal man, while he promised to give her everything possible. _I want to live like everybody else_._ I want to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on Sundays_. He watched Marguerite's face. She did not deserve to stay here and be at risk. She did not deserve to live in the dark and cold of his subterranean home anyway, fugitive or not. He had offered Christine a fine, normal home. Did he not love Marguerite enough to do the same for her?

Marguerite could not ward off the exhilaration in her voice. "Leave Paris? Where will we go?" She thought of the little town her family had turned their backs on, and she felt a real aching inside her heart.

"There is a little house in the country, which I've owned for years. It'll be in poor shape, but it's somewhere to go. Not two miles from a little village, _Eaux Froides_."

"Erik!" Marguerite embraced him as tightly as she could. "Let's go _now_. Just pick up and get out." She did not even ask why he never told her about this house before, or whether he had intended to live there with Christine. There was plenty of time for that later, if she even wanted to know at all. She did not, not really. Well…perhaps just a little.

"I must take care of things here first, at least a few more days. Perhaps even weeks. As I said, we're safe for the time being." He paused. "Marguerite, I will not falter in deciding to take another life, if it proves necessary."

She bit her lip and nodded. He had killed for her, and he would do it again. A menacing thought, yes, but what could she do? Had he killed many men before Marcel? She did not even want to think about that, either.

"Come with me," he said, taking her hand again. When she hesitated, he asked, "You wanted to visit Katie, did you not?"

"But that's too dangerous now!"

"Not when most of the people looking for you are there in one room. I will escort you and make sure no one sees us. Will that suffice?"

"I suppose," she said.

"You realize just how careful we must be now?"

Marguerite looked at him, infuriated. "Of _course _I realize that! Good lord, _I'm_ the one suspected of murder here. Did you not see me sitting there as well, listening to the _poison_ that little snake's mother was spewing about me?"

"Marguerite…"

"And did my father defend me? Did he dare to tell them, oh, certainly not my daughter you accuse! A runaway, perhaps, but not a murderer. Surely Madame D'Au_bitch_, you cannot mean that!"

Erik grasped her shoulders and shook her slightly Abruptly she closed her mouth tightly, all her other muscles tense, as well. Her stomach was screaming for something to fill it, but she tried to push the feeling away yet again.

"Don't be a fool and become frantic as _she _did," he whispered harshly.

"You're a fine one to tell me that," she blurted out. By now their eyes were adjusted to the dark, and she could see her own words had made Erik quite irate as well. She made no apology, though, and for a short while they just glared at each other.

"Do you want to see Katie or not?"

She lifted her chin. "Yes, please." He turned to lead her there, and she took his hand, just to let him know for sure everything was still all right between them. After walking silently for a moment, Erik stopped and gently pulled her close, one hand resting on her hair. Marguerite closed her eyes and nestled against him, willing herself not to burst into tears again. Neither of them was sure how long they stayed there.

"I do want to leave," she whispered. "Paris has lost all its charm for me."

She leaned back a little bit from Erik, and then heard him moving. A second later she felt his fingertips on her cheeks.

"Know this: I will die before I let anything happen to you."

She nodded before reaching up to pull his head down for a kiss, pressing herself against him again. "You've possessed my heart for some time. Now my life is in your hands as well. Do take care."

* * *

Katie was not in her dormitory, but there was another girl, and she invited Marguerite in to wait. Out in the hall, Erik murmured that he would return in an hour. Then he was gone. 

"Who was that?" the lone dancer asked when Marguerite had closed the door and taken a seat in the offered chair. Marguerite had already been told over and over again by Erik that the ballerinas never shut up. She must _never_ give one of them even a morsel that could be twisted into the slightest gossip.

"A stage hand," Marguerite said. "I'm sorry, let me introduce myself. Marguerite, you may call me."

"Marguerite? Like in _Faust_?" The girl, about fifteen or sixteen, giggled.

She sighed. "Yes. Like in _Faust_."

"My name is Amelie." The girl blinked several times, her brow lowering in questioning. "Aren't you Monsieur Gautier's daughter? My goodness, we'd heard you'd run off or something like that!"

Suddenly air could not come enough into her lungs, and Marguerite felt as though she would be sick. She closed her eyes for the briefest moment. "No, I'm not, actually."

"Oh, come now. Your name is Marguerite and you look just like how Celine described you."

"Celine?"

"Yes, another girl in the ballet corps. She lives right down the hall. According to her, Gautier's daughter has dark hair, gray eyes…"

"Well, that is certainly a very…interesting…coincidence."

Amelie just looked at her blankly before shrugging in the barest delicate movement. Another minute, and the door, to which Marguerite's back was turned, was opened and Katie's voice spoke a greeting. Marguerite quickly crossed herself, sending up a silent prayer of thanks, and stood. The dancer's eyes almost burst from their sockets, and her jaw all but dropped to the floor when her visitor turned toward her. She rushed forward to hug her tightly before a word was uttered.

"Marguerite, how _are _you? Oh, heavens, you're so pale!"

"_Bonjour_, Katie."

"Is he treating you well? Really and truly? You'd tell me, wouldn't you? You can't _imagine_ how I felt as I watched you two drive away that night. It was like…" She put on a fake smile and shook her head instead of finishing her sentence. "It's not important now. What matters is—is he good to you? I can't help but ask. You look _very _pale and almost—well—sick. And you're shaking so much!"

"Am I?"

"Yes, positively trembling. Sit down then, and tell me how you are." Marguerite glanced furtively at Amelie. Fortunately, Katie noticed. "Let's go into the room you were staying in before, if you'd rather have some privacy."

Inside the empty room, Katie all but pushed her into the chair, taking her own seat on the bed. "You've hardly said a word. Marguerite, if your circumstances were dire, would you be honest and tell me?"

Despite the fact that her circumstances _were_ rather dire, Marguerite had to smile. "We have been friends for but a few _days_."

"And yet I was the only witness at your wedding, as it were," she pointed out. "Forgive me if I show interest or concern."

Marguerite raised one hand in mock surrender. It shook rather badly, and she hastily put it back down into her lap. "Erik is very considerate with me. If you must worry about me…worry not about _that_."

"Then what shall I worry about?"

She jutted out her chin slightly to chew her upper lip. "Erik and I are leaving Paris soon, to start over."

"Where will you go?"

"His…home in the country."

Marguerite felt her throat tighten slightly. Two miles from a village, it was. She had never stopped missing Saint Marie and hoped Eaux Froides was anything like it. To leave Paris! The city had lost its excitement for her long ago, and she craved a simpler life. In fact, she had played with the idea of asking Erik to consider taking her to Saint Marie. But then, if _they _were to search for her outside of the city, Saint Marie might be the first place they would look. No matter where they ended up, Erik would be with her, and it was enough to allow herself to hope.

"An opera ghost with a little country cottage? How very quaint."

"That's quite enough," Marguerite said firmly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But honestly, Marguerite, I just can't imagine the Phantom of the Opera, who I saw lurking about one night, who _terrorized_ the _Opera Populaire_ and kidnapped Christine Daae and dropped a chandelier on the audience…" She shook her head and sighed. "I just can't see him as a _man _that some young lady such as yourself would want to _marry_."

"He _is_ a man, Katie. He's not a monster or a ghost. He's been hurt more than you could imagine. You don't know everything he's had to suffer. _I _don't know it all. But I love him dearly, and it's grown from pure fear and hatred, I can assure you. We need each other."

"Very well, then," Katie said with a tiny smile. "So you two are leaving Paris." She stood up and moved to the window, looking down over the streets. "I wish I could. Just to go home, back to England, for a little while. I haven't been there since Christmas. I just received a letter from my mother, actually, telling me my sister had a baby girl." She watched the people for a moment and then started to laugh at two little boys getting into a fight.

"What is it?" Marguerite asked, standing up and moving toward her. The room was wavy when she got up, but after three steps it started spinning like a top, and she was on her knees. Katie gasped and knelt beside her, shaking her shoulders. Marguerite clenched her teeth against the debilitating pain in her abdomen, unable to speak for a moment. Her head pounded as though someone were beating an enormous drum right beside her.

"Marguerite! What's wrong? _Please_ say something!"

Marguerite moaned and lay down completely on the floor. Her body felt hollow, and her eyes could not seem to focus. She wasn't dying. She was fine. _It will pass_…_It will pass_. _Come on then, get up_. _Aren't you overreacting a little? Poor Katie's worried sick already_.

Was that the door opening? Yes, and there were definitely other footsteps. _Please don't let it be my father_. _Please, God, anyone but him_. _Not now, not now!_

"Katie! What's going on in here? I heard you shrieking, frightened me to death."

"I don't think she's unconscious, Madame, but she won't speak!"

"Come, let's help her to the bed, and then I shall return presently."

Marguerite had her senses back a little by the time the older woman and the young dancer had hauled her to her feet, and she kept herself upright, stumbling to the bed. _You win, Erik_, she thought to herself, though she would abhor admitting it. Now lying on the bed she had occupied before, she turned her head to see Madame Luvier leaving the room.

"That woman can't do a thing without Madame Giry's help," Katie said. "We all had to go home once the _Opera Populaire_ closed, you know. When we came back after it was opened and accepting students again, a new ballet mistress had been hired. Madame Giry is exceptional, though. It's no wonder Madame Luvier has her secretly assisting." She cocked her head. "Marguerite? You _are _ill, aren't you. Is it Erik? Has he done something ghastly to you that you simply can't tell me?"

Marguerite sat up, covering her face with her hands as her mind cleared a bit. "I swear by the Holy Virgin," she finally said, "if you speak another word against him, Katie, it will be the last thing you ever say to me."

Meanwhile, Luvier hurried down halls and stairways to the quarters Madame Giry used when she was there. She had to ask the woman what to do! The girl who had been given a room on account of the Opera Ghost's demands was practically passed out for no reason. He obviously had entrusted her to their care, and he would not be happy to learn of this…if he ever did. Goodness, things were complicated. She should have just refused that letter from O.G. in the first place. But Giry had spoken to the girl; perhaps she would know what was wrong with her.

Panting, she came to the door and knocked, leaning against it and catching her breath. Nothing for a few moments, so she knocked again.

"Who is it?" Giry's voice came through, sounding clipped.

"Antoinette, it's Danielle," Luvier called through the keyhole. "There's a bit of a…situation upstairs."

"Do you _really _need me at this moment?"

"I think so."

At last there was a rattle of the doorknob and the door opened just a crack through which Luvier could see one of Giry's bright eyes. "Is it Richelle again?" she asked.

"No, it's…Marguerite. The one who came a few days ago, by orders of…_you know_. You spoke to her before; I think you ought to go now. She seems to be ill."

Silence. Luvier saw Giry's head briefly turn to look behind her.

"I will be there shortly."

"Thank you, Antoinette." Luvier hurried back to her own business. Giry locked the door again and turned around to glare at the dark figure standing against the fireplace on the opposite wall.

"Well, Erik," she said, "taking excellent care of her, are you?"


	46. Preparations and a Gift

**A/N: I really want to thank everyone for their support of this story. I'm so thankful for the feedback and that people actually want to read it! Oh, and it seems the last line of chapter 45 was quite popular, hehe. I'm _very _glad about that. I had to adjust it quite a bit until it sounded right!**

**Speaking of sounding right, if you have the _Phantom of the Opera_** **DVD (and who doesn't by this point?), then watch it w/ the French language track. (I was made aware of this, thanks to Valandah) It is _beautiful_. Really. I'm watching it, and hearing this lovely French Erik and thinking, _this _is my Erik! This is what he sounds like! Check it out, if you haven't already.**

**Review Responses:**

**Mia: **I'm just glad to see you reviewed at all! Don't worry about them being short.

**Mrs. Opera Ghost:** I love your penname, just so you know…and I love you for being a new reader! Welcome to the family.

**LenisVox:** No one can dislike the Persian, but I, too, am certainly glad Madame Giry had a more prominent role in ALW's _Phantom of the Opera_. She's always been a favorite of mine.

**Nade-Naberrie: **—sigh— Are you updating soon? I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed our online chats, exploring and analyzing the mind of our phavorite phictional character.

**Valandah:** Paaast el punto mas crucial…No, no, it doesn't have the same ring to it.

**TheWhitePrincess1:** Ohhh, so THAT is the "Lion King grin"! I've seen the movie, of course, but I couldn't figure out what grin it was. Yes, that makes a lot of sense. Personally, I have more of a weakness for the "Puss-in-Boots eyes" myself.

**Artgem04:** SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! A Gerry sundae!

Disclaimer: See the previous 45 chapters, or any other disclaimer on this website

* * *

"What has happened?" Giry asked calmly. She should have known Luvier would exaggerate. The woman was hardly better than the ballet rats she taught. Marguerite looked a bit self-conscious, but was sitting up and looked far from Death's door. Katie hovered nearby, though she should have been with the others in the _corps de ballet _for the next performance. 

"I was just a bit dizzy, madame," Marguerite said. "Nothing serious, I promise. Perhaps it's the weather changing…"

"You _are _rather pale," Giry said, echoing Katie's words, "but I suppose that is normal if you are _Erik's _bride." She gave a stiff smile. "Wouldn't you prefer to be with your husband if you're ill, rather than some old woman you barely know?" She glanced at Katie. "And what time are rehearsals, Mademoiselle Jameson?"

She flushed. "Ten o'clock, madame."

"And what time is it now?"

"Ten-fifteen."

"And are you at rehearsals?"

"No, madame. But this may be the last time I ever see Marguerite."

"Most likely not, considering she lives somewhere beneath your dormitory." The older woman's chin tilted upward again. "I suggest you hurry along."

Katie, now the one embarrassed, smiled at Marguerite before leaving the room.

"How _do _the newlyweds fare?" Giry asked. "Your health seems to be in question."

Marguerite sighed. "I'm perfectly all right. Look, I can even get up on my own." The tsunami of pain and vertigo had passed, finally, and did not return with the same force as she slowly slid off the bed and onto her own two feet. "Voila."

"Very good. Now we shall see if you make it down a few flights of stairs and to my office."

Marguerite frowned. "Why there?"

"Erik is there at this moment, of course. The King of the Catacombs has some royal commissions for me. It seems he now wishes for a more rural way of life. And," she added, not without a bit of irony, "he certainly wants his bride to live in total comfort."

"Does he know…?"

"I believe so. He did hear Danielle when she came to tell me I ought to be the one to help you in your 'infirmity.'" She placed a firm hand on Marguerite's shoulder as the young woman started to walk past. "May I ask you a rather delicate question?" Marguerite only nodded her head in the affirmative. "You and Erik _are _legitimately husband and wife, are you not?"

"Yes," Marguerite whispered. She would not have it any other way. Erik certainly knew that.

"How long have you been ill in this manner?"

_A day_. She was about to tell Giry this when she met the other woman's eyes. Her own widened in shock, and she did not know why she hesitated. _No, no, not _that! But she was too late to dispel the question.

"Are you with child?"

Marguerite froze, yet felt her skin grow warm. She must have looked terribly guilty. Just the idea…She wanted to postpone thinking about it for as long as possible. She still could. "No. It's not possible. I _have _been dizzy and ill in the stomach but…it is from not eating."

Giry looked skeptical. "Why is that?"

"I refuse…until Erik does. I don't want to bother with making meals, and I'm tired of eating alone. So I made a sort of—challenge—with him. Though I suppose I don't know what I'd win."

Giry's normally dour face lit up with unusual laughter. "You are a fool then, my dear!" At Marguerite's almost childish frown, she sobered and said, "Ah, well, we can all be one from time to time. Particularly for love of a man."

They walked in silence back to her office, both rather surprised to see that Erik had remained. His eyes did not leave Marguerite, even when his voice was addressing Giry. This did not escape the notice of the former ballet mistress. She took a seat, with a simple gesture inviting Erik and Marguerite to do the same.

"Katie had rehearsals," Marguerite whispered. Erik looked about to say something, but Giry interrupted.

"I trust, _Monsieur le Fantome_, my efforts will not be without some recompense," she said, picking up pen and paper. "You've been more than generous in the past."

Marguerite trusted her instincts and remained silent, though she was bursting with curiosity over the exchange between her husband and this woman from his past—a woman she could not help but trust, despite all her brutal questions. Erik just nodded in answer to Giry's question, and the woman continued to speak.

"I'm afraid a house that has been in disrepair for several years cannot be restored in mere days."

Scowling, Erik said, "If it requires more funds, then do not hesitate to request them. I will provide whatever it takes to see this done."

"It is not a question of money, Erik," Giry said. "It is a question of what a group of human carpenters—masons—whomever you want me to hire—is capable of. They must be contacted and hired, and must travel to the location, beside the actual work to be done on a sizeable country cottage. From the deadline you've set, it seems you are only setting yourself up for discontent. You _know _there are things beyond the realm of human ability."

Erik snorted. "Not to me."

"Perhaps you ought to perform the reconstruction _yourself_." Giry's words were quiet yet sharply spoken, yet the look Erik shot her was enough to make her drop her gaze and keep writing.

Marguerite could not keep her words to herself any longer. She leaned toward Erik and murmured, "This is truly happening, then? We will be living in that house, and…away from here?" He only nodded, and she closed her eyes, taking one of his hands. "Thank you."

After another quick glare at Giry, he shifted in his seat to turn a bit more toward his wife. "What happened to you after I left?"

She raised a trembling hand to pick an eyelash out of the corner of her eye. "I'm perfectly fit. Don't concern your brilliant mind with something so trivial as my health."

She tried to avoid his eyes, but he already noticed that hers—normally vibrant—were strangely glassy. Yes, he knew what was wrong with her, and cursed her stubbornness. He cursed Giry, as well, for immediately thinking that whatever had befallen Marguerite was his fault.

Restless, he stood and moved impatiently around the fireplace, watched by the only two people in the world he trusted, and both were at a loss for words while waiting for his. Marguerite kept glancing at the door, holding her breath to listen for familiar, unwelcome footsteps and voices. Erik noticed, and felt a disgusting weight on his back, a tension in his neck that he had not felt in years—the sense of being pursued. They had already tarried too long within the dormitories; it was time to go back…for now.

He waved one hand imperiously toward Giry. "Hire the best you can find, give them the instructions I'd told you earlier, and inform me of the cost. I shall grant whatever estimate you provide, along with your wages."

He narrowed his eyes slightly in an attempt to appear threatening; only Giry knew it was a ruse. "I trust you shall not need a _raise_ from your former salary, considering your daughter is flourishing on her own and no longer dependent upon you."

"Of course," Giry said, and Marguerite was once again struck by the awesome dignity of this woman. Her clothing was shabby; perhaps the meager allowance Luvier provided under the table was barely enough to keep body and soul together. Yet Giry held herself with such pride, Marguerite wondered if she and Erik were more alike than Marguerite had thought.

She hoped Erik was generous in reimbursing Giry for whatever tasks she performed for him…for both of them. That she was helping them at all was more than Marguerite could have hoped for.

* * *

"Your son is the most temperamental child in France!" Christine huffed. She had finally gotten Armande to settle down for his afternoon nap. The nurse had rushed into the room, red-faced and holding the squalling little boy. He would not mind her, for whatever reason, though earlier he had been serenely playing with toys, as pleasant as could be. 

Raoul smiled lightly. "He certainly did not get it from _my _blood."

"Oh, of _course_ not. But if he grows up to betray secrets, I'll know where _that _came from!"

The vicomte sighed. "Are you still angry with me?"

"Perhaps."

"And you know this concerns me a great deal."

"I just wish…he could be left alone," Christine said, rubbing her forehead. "And she as well. I'm sorry, Raoul, I am perfectly aware that I barely know her, but you shouldn't have sent Henri after her."

"I didn't _send _him!" Raoul said indignantly, tossing aside his newspaper and getting up to stand beside his wife. "He would have pursued her anyway. I was trying to make circumstances easier for _us_, Christine, and I see I have failed miserably."

"What does he want with her?"

"Can't you have guessed? He is in love with her. Or at least exceedingly fond of her. Besides, he wants to know if she knows anything of Marcel's death."

"If he loves her," Christine murmured, almost completely to herself, "he'll set her free."

Raoul's jaw clenched at the sight of his wife's wide, faraway eyes. "Wouldn't you feel terribly guilty to find out Erik really is dead, and Mademoiselle Gautier has no one _but_ Henri?"

"Even if that were true, she loved Erik. She will not love Henri, then."

"What are you saying? A murderer, a thief, a fraud, an extortionist, is the ultimate example of manhood? Do you wish you had remained with _him?_"

Christine groaned and placed her hands on his much higher shoulders. "Not at all. He frightened me terribly, Raoul, and his love for me, even more so. It was desperate and volatile. No matter what he said, he _would _have trapped me there forever."

She tightened her grip, clearly enunciating her words. "All I am saying is that if a woman truly loves Erik—as I did not—she will not desire another. You must listen to my words, dearest, coming from a woman's heart." She placed one hand upon his cheek. Oh, the poor thing—He looked so downcast. "You are all the life I want."

"And I must believe you."

"Yes. But you see, I feel somewhat responsible for the poor girl. Because of me, they were brought together, she and Erik, and…also because of me…they may be together still."

* * *

Once again, Marguerite held her tongue for several minutes. Erik led her through a narrow back hallway, into the _Opera Populaire_ itself, and to the dressing room with the curious mirror. Stepping inside, she cringed as Erik's grip on her hand tightened immensely. She did not cry out. She held her breath and followed him through the mirror after he had opened it. His eyes swept over the room, holding an expression she could not define, though she most certainly saw it. On her own, she thought she had come to the answer to why Erik had constructed a passageway, with a two-way mirrored door, to _this particular dressing room_. For a moment, she felt helpless, until she gently pulled at his hand, still tightly clasping hers. It seemed to bring him back to her, and they continued down the dark, narrow, stone corridor to the lake. 

Erik made Russian tea when they came back to the subterranean house, and Marguerite had to hold back her grimace as she sipped it. She was no stranger to the flavor, having stayed with Erik long enough, but she liked it no more than the first time she tasted it. To her chagrin, he also brought out a small plate of croissants, purchased before the wedding for her consumption alone. He set the plate beside her teacup, and she glanced several times between it and his masked face.

Her stomach practically folded itself in half and all but vocally pleaded to be sated. She chewed at her lip, looking up at Erik again to see him smirking at her. Oh, what an experienced, evil tempter he was. She turned away and sipped the tea, accidentally taking in too much and choking as it burned her throat. Trying to cough delicately and failing miserably, she felt Erik's weight settle on the sofa beside her. She refused to look.

"Starvation does not become you, my darling," he said. She was almost swayed by the combination of his voice and a term of endearment he had never used with her before. "Obstinacy _can_ be a virtue sometimes. But day in and day out, it becomes…tedious."

Marguerite finally turned her head to glare at him, just as he leaned forward to pluck one of the croissants from the plate. He tore it in two and offered her half. Fingers still shaking, she took it. It was too close to refuse; _he _was too close. Hang it all, she already knew he had won. Besides, she _was _starving. It had been over a day since her last meal, and the weeks before that had not been very filling, either.

She slowly raised the food to her lips, and just then Erik took a bite from the morsel he still held. Marguerite was so surprised that she nearly dropped her own, but regained it and pushed it eagerly into her mouth, chewing with inward exultation. Oh, it was heavenly to taste, but it disappeared into her stomach as thought it were nothing. The other two pastries on the plate vanished in a wink. After swallowing the last bite, Marguerite laughed and embraced Erik around the neck. "Whose obstinacy were you talking about, then?" she asked, grinning.

"It depends."

She waited until he had finished his tea before asking him to sing for her. "I think I might live forever on your voice alone." She smiled. "Though your stubbornness may drive me to an early grave."

"_My_ stubbornness, madame?"

Her smile faded when she thought that, perhaps, it was the hangman's noose which would drive her to an early grave, instead. She tried to push the morbid thought from her mind. She must be cautious—they both must be—but to worry too much was useless.

Erik shook his head. "You shall sing for _me_." Marguerite stared at him as he stood and moved to the organ, picking up several sheets of music. "It is finished…my gift for you."

She slowly rose from the couch and approached him, delicately taking the papers from him as though they were thin sheets of glass. Without speaking, she glanced at the first line of the lyrics. Had she the words, they would have been stuck in her throat anyway.

_Some glory in their birth, some in their skill_…She looked back up to Erik, watching her with his piercing stare and parted lips through which she could see his clenched teeth.

"I read this to you," she finally whispered. "This is Shakespeare's 91st sonnet."

"Set to music," he explained, "corresponding perfectly to your own vocal range and aptitude."

She stared at the music again. "You wrote it for me?" He had adjusted a few of his old compositions to suit her voice, but this…was something completely unique, composed with _her _in mind. Her eyes felt damp, and her chest a little tight. Clearing her throat, she added, "But you'd already given me a present."

"_This _is the belated wedding gift."

"Erik, I…I have nothing to give you. I feel so insufficient." She was reading the next page when she felt her chin tilted upward. Though she wanted to avoid his eyes, he made it impossible.

"You are the greatest gift I have ever received."

She swallowed and covered his hands with hers. "I'll take care of you. I promise."

He smiled. "Oh, yes," he said sarcastically, "that is exactly what I was hoping you would say. Come, I will teach you this." He took the papers from her and set them aside as he took out the violin. "It is better with strings."

Marguerite felt almost panicked by the end of the song. It was melancholy, it was joyous, bittersweet; it was heart-wrenching in every direction. Yet something else troubled her—it was _too _beautiful—she could not sing this.

"If you actually believe I can get my voice to sound anything like that…"

"You will," he said. "I said I will teach you. Do not underestimate yourself, Marguerite. You are only inexperienced." He lifted his eyebrows. "Are you _questioning_ me?"

Marguerite laughed nervously. "Never!"

"Well, then." With that, he raised the violin, tucking it under his chin again. He adjusted the bow in his thin, capable fingers and began playing scales for warming up. Marguerite learned that, even after a scant number of lessons, he knew her voice better than she did. This new piece was not exactly easy, but a challenge to which she could rise. No other music had made her feel quite this way before. Like a person so beautiful one cannot look for very long, the combination of Shakespeare's words and Erik's music shook her down in her very soul.

And it was written just for her.

"_Some glory in their birth, some in their skill/ Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force/ Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill/ Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; / And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure/ Wherein it finds a joy above the rest_…" And then her lungs seemed to stop working, while her eyes began to dampen again, shedding tears that she finally stopped trying to hold back. Covering her mouth with the back of her hand, she turned around to face away from Erik. The music stopped, and the room felt hollow.

"What is it?" Erik asked.

"It is too beautiful. You shouldn't have done this for me."

"Is that all—the music? Please stop, Marguerite. It hurts me to see you cry."

"That's not really all. It…it is just…everything. I know you would let me go anywhere I wish, but I can't now. I hardly dare to show myself above the ground for long. Even here, in your sanctuary that has become mine, I cannot feel completely secure." Her smile was a weak, vain attempt. "Yet your music does ease the pain…and your very presence…and your love."

Erik put the violin aside. "You believe I will allow anything to harm you?"

"No," she said. "But I do wish to be away from here as soon as possible. I can't live like this for much longer. I wish I could be like you, Erik—I wish everyone thought I was dead. It would make everything much easier, would it not?"

* * *

**A/N: Sorry, this was an odd cutoff point, but I had no choice.**

**To read the whole sonnet, refer to chapter 32.**

**As I've said before, I don't have a goal for the number of reviews I want to get. But, if you read this story, if you follow it, if it's on your alerts or favorites list, I would really appreciate at least the smallest comment!**


	47. Another Mask Removed

**A/N: Oh wow, after the last chapter, I will never complain about not getting feedback ever again! Thank you all so, so much—I love you all, my darling readers. Please enjoy this next chapter, with complimentary cliffhanger included at no extra charge **—wink—

**For those of you who are insanely anxious to see Marguerite get knocked up, I'm still not sure if that's actually happening yet or not. That _would _make the story a lot longer (though I'm still lengthening it more than I had expected!), but I don't know if it would help it. This chapter, though, is going to have a lot of _discussion_ of the possibility. Have as much fun reading it as I had writing it.**

Disclaimer: People! Seriously!

* * *

"Were that intended as a joke, it was in very, very poor taste," Erik said in a low tone, practically hissing through his teeth. 

"No, actually," Marguerite said, perturbed. "Not really a _joke_, I mean. Still, I didn't…I didn't really mean it." She shrugged. "What does it matter? I'm already dead to them, after all."

"Not to _everyone_, from what was said in your father's office."

She frowned deeply. "Well, they certainly wouldn't be disappointed if I _were_ dead."

Erik stood from the organ bench, appearing agitated as he stalked to his desk. He whirled back to face her, without sitting down again. "I was referring to _someone else_…someone they said was looking for you."

Marguerite just raised her eyebrows and waited for him to clarify.

"That boy _Henri_ would be most disappointed to hear of your death, fictional or not."

She closed her eyes tightly. "Erik…I don't care about him. Well, he was my friend, but nothing like _that_. I don't know why he would be looking for me. I hadn't seen him since the ball, and then at the bookstore, and…here, for a moment."

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Erik turned away from her. He believed every word she said, but his natural cynicism and irrepressible jealousy did not want to allow him. Since she had returned to him, there had been hardly a moment that she had not spent in his presence, save for the first couple of nights and time with Katie. Yet when had Marguerite the chance to give Henri enough hope, however unwittingly, that would plant the urge to seek her out? Just what had taken place when she was drinking, before that dancer dragged her up to her room? Erik had not bothered to ask for details, not quite certain he wanted to know. Had there been anything between his wife and this young man before? Erik knew he was a former suitor. Marguerite had told him as much herself—a competitor of Marcel's. Perhaps he was searching to make a conquest, now that the other man was dead. Perhaps he, like everyone else (it seemed), simply wanted to know if she was his murderer.

"He will not find you," Erik said firmly. "And should you somehow meet him—I don't know under what circumstances, but life is very mysterious sometimes—you will _not _speak to him."

Marguerite sighed. "Do you want me to be rude?"

"Oh, always the high-class lady, with outstanding manners," he said.

"Everything that has happened doesn't mean I can't still be genteel! But if you insist…Should our paths somehow cross, I promise I will avoid him however possible. And if, for whatever reason, I can't, then I will be polite, but I shall not smile—just to avoid anything that _might_ be taken as encouragement."

Erik nodded, looking a little dissatisfied with her "compromise."

"Though," Marguerite continued, "he may question _this_." She held up her left hand, displaying the little glimmer of gold on her third finger. "He never had much of a sense of humor, if I recall correctly, so I don't think he would be very amused to hear that I have wed the Phantom of the Opera."

"Do _you_ find it amusing?" Erik asked, turning his head ever so slightly, his eyes still locked on hers.

She gave him a little half-grin. "Ironic, perhaps. Slightly…ironic."

* * *

Several days, and nothing more alarming occurred. Marguerite and Erik stayed out of sight, except for Erik's extensive, unceasing instructions to Giry regarding the repair of his house and their ultimate flight from Paris. Marguerite did not ask many questions, believing that the more she knew, the more she would worry. She cleaned their house, deciding what she would take when they left (not very much, as most of her worldly possessions had remained with her parents), and mended clothing. Soon it seemed there was nothing left to do but wait. 

From what news he received of the house's progress, Erik remained dissatisfied with the men Giry had hired for the task. Giry had already reminded him—countless times—that they were only men, not miracle-workers. They worked as hard as they could, and still could not seem to measure up to Erik's expectations. Marguerite had to wonder why Giry told him so much, when it only irritated him. She saw no point in also asking him to be patient—he rarely was, and doubtless would not heed her words anyway.

Still, Marguerite also knew she did not want to harshly criticize Erik—her husband and protector. He still prowled the theater to observe any attempts to find the source of the corpse. Policemen marched through, but none seemed capable of discovering anything of importance. After all, they had failed when Erik had vandalized Gautier's office so many months ago.

He blocked several passageways, and kept an eye on the trap-doors. To their luck, the singer who was now using Christine's old dressing-room was so outraged by the damage done to her mirror in an attempt to open it, that she demanded it be left alone, lest it be broken completely. Erik was particularly pleased to relay that piece of information to Marguerite. If he had not known Marguerite really _wanted _to leave Paris and live in the country, he would have questioned whether they needed to depart at all. But perhaps…perhaps it would be good for him.

Marguerite had some other concerns of her own. She cooked very little, for they both ate sparingly—Marguerite was still anxious, which greatly reduced her appetite. Still, their provisions were dwindling, and she wondered if it was time to again leave the opera house for shopping purposes. She did want to get out, at least for a little while, but the idea of a chance meeting with some of those who would have her arrested in an instant made her pause, at the very least.

Erik was attempting to organize his musical compositions one morning, the first time it was really necessary, and Marguerite had decided to bake bread. The lovely aroma wafted through the cavern, and her stomach cramped with hunger. Once it cooled, she could eat.

"I don't remember the last time I baked bread," Marguerite said.

Erik remained silent, concentrating on his task.

"But once it's made, and I put together a meal for today…there's nothing left." Had he even heard her? Well, the prospect of lacking food was not really one to concern him, she knew. "I'll have to go buy _something _if we're staying here any longer."

Erik finally looked up at her, still silent, but completely alert.

"I'm a bit concerned about being seen," she went on. "Last time, I met Madame D'Aubigne on the street."

"It is probably more dangerous to show yourself within these walls than outside of them," Erik said. "Your father's office seems to have become quite a popular meeting-place."

"And Paris is a large city," Marguerite concurred. She picked up Beatrice and cuddled her for a moment. When she set her back down again, the cat did not waste a second before going to wind around Erik's ankles. "Rotten little wench," Marguerite muttered.

Erik picked up Beatrice and she started to purr loudly. "Jealous, my dear?" he asked Marguerite, grinning. "You really shouldn't be. She's only a cat, you know." The amusement in his green eyes was almost enough to infuriate her, but she only shook her head grudgingly and picked up her mending.

She compromised that day by making a _small _midday meal, with what was left of the food. As they ate, she had to wonder how she was to accomplish shopping for sustenance. Would she have to wear a mask like her husband? Ridiculous—she was neither in the wrong nor deformed. She would not hide her face from the entire world. She smiled as she watched Erik chew and swallow, trying to hide her mischievous delight.

"Not terrible, is it?" she asked.

"It is acceptable," he said haughtily.

Afterward, Erik played a tune he claimed would help digestion and soothe her mind. But the numerous thoughts that pervaded Marguerite's brain, as much as she reminded herself she was worrying _excessively_, could not be settled. When Erik stopped, she read aloud from _The Odyssey_, smiling to herself each time she came to the phrase "gray-eyed Athena."

Something of her concern must have shown in her voice, for Erik said, "Half your thoughts are elsewhere."

She looked up, startled, and put the volume down. "There is much to think about."

"Yet I have told you that you needn't worry."

"Oh, I can't seem to help it." She sighed. "Especially when there are people asking me impertinent and alarming questions."

His eyes flashing, he stood up quickly. "What kinds of questions? Who asks them?"

She grimaced, once again completely at a loss in guessing how he would react. The truth was the only way to know. "Erik, have you…have you considered children?" His expression froze, so that his face's unmasked portion was as stony and unyielding as the mask itself. Marguerite was actually frightened.

"What are you saying?"

"Only that…Madame Giry asked me if…if I was…expecting. Of course it's impossible this…early, but…I was wondering if you had considered the fact that it might occur."

Erik leaned forward in his seat at the organ, his eyes narrowed, yet still boring into hers. "God forbid it."

Knitting her brow, Marguerite asked, "Why?" He rarely invoked God into any conversation. This must have been very serious. For some reason, his vehement remark had truly caused her offense. Erik never did seem to be the kind of man who would eagerly father a large family, but his reaction seemed rather extreme. She swallowed and waited upon his answer, but he only shook his head and turned back to the organ. She sprang to her feet and was beside him before he had played two notes.

"Are you _afraid_?" She received another glare, almost as dangerous as when he had long ago threatened to kill her. She balked, but kept talking. "Do you think any children of yours will have the same affliction?"

Still no answer.

"I can't tell you how often I've wondered what life would have been like for you, had you received a compassionate upbringing. I swear to you, Erik, for your children, God _willing_, I would be the kind of mother you never had. I would nurture them and love them, no matter what."

"No child," he finally said, "should be cursed this way, no matter how _loving_ the mother. If you found yourself with child, I would provide you with a remedy to end it. I learned much from the gypsies, you see…medical miracles, they may be called."

Horrified, Marguerite stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like a choking fish. "You can't mean that. Tell me you don't mean that!"

"Most assuredly, I do."

"Erik, you…you would kill your baby?"

"It would spare worse pain later on."

"Then you would kill _me!_ Don't you understand doing such a thing would _kill_ me, Erik?"

He stood up again, towering over her. "What does it matter at this point?" he thundered. "You said you are not carrying a child. Why concern yourself with something that has not happened?"

She brought a hand to her forehead. "Better I know _now _of your thoughts on the subject. You're no better than your own mother, Erik. You told me yourself she wished you had died in the womb. If you harbor such feelings, how are you any more civilized or caring?"

"Perhaps I _should _have rotted there! I'm alive _now_ and don't crave death, but I believe that maybe death should have come first. It would have foregone much, much more agony."

"And what about me, then?" she asked. "Where would that leave me?"

"Still middle-class and happy in your little village, I would imagine."

Marguerite's eyes lost their shine. "Married to some dullard who snores loudly, has no care for good literature, and would not know the first thing about composing music. Perhaps he would not be cruel, but would not hesitate to take from his wife what he believed to be his due. And he would spend the rest of his days wishing for a better life, yet not do a thing about it unless the sky opened and an opportunity dropped like manna from heaven. And even then, he would turn his back on all those he held dear in favor of such a chance."

Eyebrows raised, Erik asked, "And have you met such men before?"

She sighed and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "My father."

* * *

Much later that night, Erik lay awake, watching his wife sleep, her thin body slack and her breathing steady. It was the most serene she had been all the rest of the day, though Erik had tried to cajole her into a lighter mood. He played his song for her, causing more tears to run from her eyes, but she still turned away her face, refusing to look at him. They had returned to their hiding place above the theater to watch another performance, but she had said little the entire time, though she did not shy away when he touched her. It was only after the opera, when she was readying for bed and he gently pulled her close, that she refused him. 

"Why bother?" she had asked. "We ought to just prevent it altogether." With that, she turned her back and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders.

Erik shook with barely contained rage. She felt it, and tried to ignore it. He had briefly considered taking her by force, but it would have been irreparable damage, on top of everything that day he had already said. He left the room to write and pace, his countenance fierce enough to warn even Beatrice to stay away. Hours later, he had returned, weary and regretful, to find Marguerite genuinely asleep. When he lay once again beside her and pulled her close, she barely stirred. Deep in slumber, she could not stay angry with him.

When Marguerite awoke the next morning, she was more willing to forget than to forgive. She did not want to attack Erik unceasingly on the issue, though now that it had been brought up, it was a heavy weight on her heart. Maybe more subtlety was necessary. Yet she wondered how right he was—what was the use of pestering him about it if it was not really an immediate concern? What if it _never_ became an immediate concern?

She sorrowfully watched him pet Beatrice, whom he adored. Children…children were different from cats. Marguerite shuddered at a mental image of giving birth in the damp and chill of the fifth cellar, of raising a family beneath the theater. Madness—that's what it was. But in a country cottage? Sunlight always made things look better, and perhaps that was just what Erik needed. What made him believe that a child of his would also be cursed? There was no way of knowing, and even if there was, Marguerite could never destroy a life inside her—especially if half of it came from Erik.

She had to get her mind off of this, at least for a little while. She went to the drawer where she knew Erik hid some money, and took it.

"I'm going shopping while it is still early," she told him. "I'll return as soon as I can."

After crossing through the Rue Scribe passage, she found herself on the street with nothing but money and ignorance. Where did one buy foodstuffs in Paris? The maids had always done the shopping. When she was on her own, she'd eaten, of course, but mostly the scant meals provided by the establishment.

It was not long before she had found a place, a small outdoor market (now that it was spring again and such things could be held out-of-doors). There was little in season yet, but Marguerite bought preserves, flour, and fish. There was an older woman selling meat castoffs, entrails, and fat as cheap food for the people's carnivorous pets. Alley cats swarmed around her feet, their obnoxious cries blending with that of humanity. Marguerite stopped to consider buying some for Beatrice, but decided she was already sleek enough on her diet of theater mice. Besides, she did not want to have to carry the filth back with her.

Marguerite smiled and tipped her face upward as the sun emerged from behind a cloud and light fell upon her skin. She did not even need her cloak today. It was so pleasant out, she felt confident enough to wander, just to the edge of her old turf.

She recognized several carriages and a few pedestrians, but no one seemed to take much notice of her. At least, not until she spotted a short, thinner woman across a narrower street, with graying strawberry-blonde hair, and a yellow silk dress. Marguerite was sure she recognized that dress. It was confirmed when, as she stood rooted to the spot and completely stunned, the woman turned around, and their eyes met.

Marguerite was looking directly into the matching gray eyes of her mother.


	48. Convoluted

**A/N: Yes, yes, that was so cruel of me, blah blah blah…admit it…you love it.**

**All right, so I was having this brainstorming session with my Mini-Muse, Nade-Naberrie, and since the story is coming to a close _very_ shortly **—sniff— **I'm seriously thinking about doing a sequel. I promise it would be just as pretzel-twisty and dramatic as this one has been (ha, ha!), but I have to know what you all think. The need for a sequel might be more obvious once the story is complete. But if you're up for it, I'd like to know.**

**Review Replies:**

**LenisVox: **Your spazzy review made me laugh so hard. I just thought you should know.

**Mominator: **Well I'm glad to know I'm doing something original…I can't tell half the time.

**Tink8812:** I used to want to be a marriage counselor. Maybe that's why I have so much fun pitting Marguerite and Erik against each other!

**Surf with music: **I myself was trying to think of a solution to the name thing, and I was hoping no one would ask about it, ha! But hopefully the tiny detail in this chapter will kind of settle it. Since they didn't really study genetics thoroughly in the Victorian era, it would really be a big question of their child having Erik's face or not. Besides, if it's a curse, maybe it's passed down from father to son! (or daughter, depending…)

**KLMerie: **Yes, I tried my best to make this encounter much nicer than the other ones Marguerite has had, but I'm sure by the end of this chapter everyone will hate her mother anyway.

**TheWhitePrincess1:** I can't tell if you're having more fun writing a review, reading this story, or smooching your own Erik. Hmmm…Yeah, I definitely know what you mean…I really do have trouble picturing Erik with a son, for some reason.

**Mrs. Opera Ghost:** I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I know I've taken longer than I usually do. Here! Read this!

**Phantom4753: **Another person with the "Erik-should-have-a-daughter-not-a-son" mindset. Interesting…

**Mia: **Your English is excellent, and look! Here's another chapter for you!

**Nade-Naberrie: **What on earth do I say to you? No, I'll have to tell you later, lol.

**Bonanza: **Pffft. Marguerite already HAS Erik! There's no way you're taking him from her! Hehe, glad you can finally review. You know I love 'em.

**THANK YOU NEW REVIEWERS! I don't think I've gotten so many new reviewers for a single chapter since this story was a wee fledgling. I'm sorry I can't respond to everyone. I'm really eager to post this chapter, and I scrolled through the reviews and thought, holy crap…I can't respond to them all tonight. I'm so grateful to you all!**

**I hope this chapter does not disappoint.**

Disclaimer: If it's in the book or the movie, it's not mine; Oh, and I did steal a line from _Moulin Rouge_…it seemed to fit

* * *

Acting upon instinct, Marguerite looked away, but could not seem to move a muscle. She finally took a step backward and turned around to walk the other direction—not even toward the theater, but just anywhere that was not where she was at that moment. She was caught completely off-guard and unprepared. Questions…accusations…how much could she stand at the moment? As she took a few steps, she heard her name, spoken very closely behind her. She stopped, her heart pounding. Why? Why had she stopped? _Just keep going—don't look back! Don't stop here! _But she turned around once again, to see her mother standing barely a meter away. 

"Marguerite," Isabelle said again, her face deathly white, and her eyes enormous. "I thought I would never see you again!"

Her neck tense, Marguerite opened her mouth to speak, but no sound was emitted between her lips.

"It has been so long…" There was an earnestness, almost a desperation, in Isabelle's voice, and moisture collected in her eyes as she stared at her daughter. "Marguerite…Daughter…Please speak a word!"

Marguerite swallowed and took a deep breath. "Mama…" Before she could do or say anything else, Isabelle stepped closer and embraced her tightly. Marguerite was crushed against the expensive, springtime creation of lace and silk.

"Darling, what has happened?" Isabelle asked, choking on tears. "Where have you been hiding from us?"

"I'm so sorry I lied to you. But I…" She swallowed again. "You're looking well, Mother…"

"Marguerite, what is going on? Where are you now? Why did this all happen…?"

"I mustn't say anything, really—"

"I got your last letter. I haven't shown it to your father yet. Can you not tell me anything else? To whom are you married? Heavens, child, may I not know _something_?"

"Erik," Marguerite said. "I married Erik." She did not tell her mother she was still a Gautier, wed to a man with no name and no heritage. "I'm sorry, Mother, I can't tell you more. Except, we are leaving Paris soon, once his affairs are in order. Then I…I imagine then you may _not_ be seeing me again. I'm sorry."

"Why did you leave us? We heard not a word…worried to death, positively sick over it. And you came? You came to the house? Oh my dear, what you must have thought!"

Marguerite's skin felt too tight, somehow. She could hardly find the breath, much less the words, to express herself, yet she found herself saying, "There was little room for thought, Mother. It was made very clear to me what you thought of my absence."

Isabelle had the grace to appear humiliated. "I cannot offer any excuses, except for the burden of society—"

"Blast it all, Mother!" She felt herself flushing, and Isabelle was glancing around to see who was watching this quiet reunion-turned-quarrel. "Forget what _society _thinks…it almost destroyed me, all this trickery and lying to work our way up. What about pure love for one's family? Does that mean anything?"

"Marguerite, please. I realize we must ask your forgiveness as well. There is nothing I can say in our defense, truly there is not. But if you could only know what we must have thought…If you could only tell me anything more. What about Marcel? He was in love with you, was he not? And now, he is _dead!_"

Marguerite forgot to look surprised at the news. "He did not love me, Mother," she said hotly. "He tried to take advantage of me—several times! Erik…helped me through, by the grace of God."

"I never would have thought it of him! Could you not have come home? Did you marry this Erik out of gratitude, perhaps to escape?"

_Do you still think me some kind of whore?_ "No! For love I married him, and for love I remain with him and would die for him."

Isabelle closed her eyes briefly before asking another question, hesitantly. "Did you…have anything to do with Marcel D'Aubigne's death? You did not mention it in your letter, but I saw you are not shocked to hear of it."

"I…I suspected he was dead, but I swear I did not take his life! You must believe me."

"Of course I do."

"Oh, Mother, you have cast me from my family and thought me to be a murderer. Do not refuse the truth when I tell you!"

Isabelle had finally taken out a delicately embroidered handkerchief to wipe her eyes and nose, moving closer to the side of the building so they would obstruct even less pedestrian traffic. "I already said I believe you. Yet you have told me almost nothing." She touched Marguerite's cheek. "I no longer have your confidence as I used to. Daughter, I am thankful beyond words to see you alive and well. Shall I speak to your father? He was far angrier than I. You know what things are important to him, but he _must_ have a change of heart! Yet what we thought when you first went missing—"

"Please don't," Marguerite interrupted. "It's over now…it is past. I will tell you, when I wrote that first letter, I was very ill, and…Erik took care of me, however reluctantly at the time. I _never_ behaved in a way that would have made you ashamed of me!"

"Oh, my darling." She took Marguerite's hand. A moment's pause, and she held it up for a closer look at the ring. "Such a simple thing."

Marguerite jerked her hand away, eyes flashing. She was still so concerned with class and wealth! "_He_ is not so simple! Nor a poor man."

Isabelle nodded, looking at her daughter's dress. "Yes, as I see now."

Marguerite looked down at herself. She was wearing the rose-colored dress in which she had gotten smashing drunk. A great amount of careful washing and a little mending had made it good as new. "He had this made for me. Erik buys me books, he composes music for me…I have no question of his devotion." _Unless I should bear his child_…_or_…_unless the Vicomte de Chagny should suddenly perish_.

Isabelle kept her face still. Her daughter had not boasted of a _handsome_ husband of high breeding, and she could not help but wonder why Marguerite was so eager to keep him a secret from her own parents. And yet…she was so eager to defend him. He must have been worthy of her. And she was out in the open, in public, without him, so he was not a man who confined her.

"Erik loves me, Mother. He loves me, and that is worth everything." It was almost as though she had read her mother's mind. "Even more than having a higher social standing here in Paris than in Saint-Marie. I will be glad to be out of this city." It dawned on her, bittersweet, that it was time to finish. Odd, how seeing her mother now only emphasized how accustomed she had become to her new life with Erik. She turned to go. "Goodbye, Mother." It was her turn to take Isabelle's gloved hand and give it an affectionate squeeze. "I love you… I am still your little Marguerite."

"You are my daughter, and you have my love. But you are not still my little Marguerite. I don't know where she's gone to, but this woman I see before me is quite an entirely different being! Perhaps…knowing that now…is the only way I can let you go." She hugged Marguerite even more tightly this time. "I wish only good things for you. You must know that. Perhaps one day you will come home for a proper reconciliation, and bring this mysterious Erik with you."

Thinking it might never be so, Marguerite nodded and smiled sadly, turning away again, this time in the direction of the _Opera Populaire_. It was a struggle to keep her purchases from falling to the sidewalk, or to avoid collisions with others out and about today. By the time her feet pounded down the Rue Scribe route, her head was spinning. She burst into the room like a solider in the midst of a siege.

Beatrice jumped from her resting place on the sofa. Erik's head snapped up.

Marguerite stopped in her tracks and slowly knelt to place her packages on the floor. "I saw my mother," she said in a distant voice, more to the farthest wall of the room than to him. "She saw me…We spoke…"

Erik's green eyes widened just a bit.

"I think she's prepared to forgive…if there really is anything to forgive. I told her we were leaving Paris. She said she hoped we might return…both of us." She tilted her head and actually looked at him. "You _did _send that letter, didn't you. To my house. My mother read it, and didn't show my father, but she, at least, knows I am married." She lowered her chin. "But I would have thought _him_ to be the more compassionate parent."

"Nothing quite happens according to plan, does it?" Erik asked.

"Apparently not." _Lord knows _I _wasn't in your plan_. She picked up the goods again and moved them to the kitchen, Beatrice following close behind. After putting things in their places, she leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, too weary to do anything else.

Her mind was full, so full of confusion over what had just happened, and how she was to feel about it. Upon seeing and speaking to her mother, Marguerite realized just how much she had gotten used to the idea that she would never doing so again. In fact, she had begun to not _want _to at all. There had been a finality to this last parting that made her feel as though a burden had been lifted. But in feeling that way…was she a horrible daughter after all?

Erik found her like that half an hour later, slowly petting Beatrice, her head down. If she had not been moving, he might have thought she had fallen asleep. Of course, she sensed his presence and looked up at him, unsmiling but…hopeful.

Erik kneeled beside her, poised almost frog-like. "Just what happened with your mother?"

"She was surprised to hear I'd gotten married. Of _course_ she asked me if I killed Marcel, but…she believed me when I said I did not. And then she said…she didn't know me anymore."

One corner of Erik's mouth tipped upward. "Completely understandable."

"Pardon me?" Marguerite had been confused by her mother's comment, and only just a little insulted. In agreeing with Isabelle, Erik had rendered her flabbergasted.

"It was a child who smacked into me that day in the opera house. It was a little girl who came looking for me, furious at the vandalism to her father's office, and completely unaware of what she was tangling with." He reached out to cup her chin. "I found you rather interesting when I saw how captivated you were with the opera, sitting with your family in _my _box. It was your first opera, though you liked to pretend it wasn't so." He leaned back a little. "But this is a _woman_ sitting before me now. One year changes many things."

"I see what you mean," Marguerite said, biting her lip shyly.

"Come," Erik said, standing and extending his hand to her. "Time to get up."

"For what?" She took his hand and got to her feet.

"A little excursion. It might make you feel better."

The "excursion" was a ride through the labyrinth of lake and canals in Erik's boat. It was dark, enigmatic, and frightening, rather like the man who steered them through it all. Also like the man, it was all strangely beautiful, and quite captivating. Marguerite remained silent, thoughtful but observant, for he had not shown her this part before. They sailed through narrow canals and low tunnels, to a foreboding cavern that seemed to have caved in. Water dripped from the ceiling. Another place was full of gargoyles carved from stone. There were other places that seemed to have remained unused and untouched since the _Opera Populaire_ had been built.

"It's quite beautiful here, isn't it," she finally said. She leaned over the gondola's edge to look into the water, but could only see her shadow on the surface of the water. There was too little light to see her reflection. With a tired sigh, she leaned backward, startled to bump into Erik's legs. She craned her neck to look up at him with a tiny smile.

He did not return it, but stopped steering and set the pole aside in the boat. He crouched down to sit beside Marguerite on the floor. Without asking or being asked, she leaned against his body, her head against his arm. Quiet reigned for a while as they sat there, letting the lake's flow take them where it may. She did not know how long it was before she broke the silence.

"I'm glad to leave them behind, Erik. And yet…I do not hate them."

He only moved his hands to stroke her hair.

"I can't—not my own kin. I'll never understand why they did what they did, but I simply can't hate them. Especially not a hatred that can be carried forever."

"I suppose not," Erik said vaguely. He did not hate his own mother, either, for her maltreatment, but in his case, it had been years since she died—and only days later he had seen her for the last time. It had been much longer before that when he ran away from home. The exact number of years was lost to him, and in their course, his hatred had cooled completely. Now it seemed distant in every way possible, to have belonged to another person, with another past, and not his own.

"You do not weep," he said.

"I cannot weep for this. Is that absolutely ghastly of me?"

"I hardly think so. They do not deserve your tears."

"The only thing I want is to start over. Everything became so…twisted, so convoluted. And now, the way things are here with you—my life with you—has become…oh, I don't know…_normal_ to me. It's what I want. I'm content, even more so with the idea of leaving. And I feel guilty, Erik! I feel like I shouldn't be this happy to leave my only family behind, and possibly never see them again."

"Do _not_ feel that way! They don't deserve it, not that much consideration. Guilt only makes you weak. I grew up Catholic, too, and I damn well know it. You—must—not—care."

"I don't think I do," she said. "That's just the point. I know complacency can be dangerous, but hatred takes so much work." She reached up to touch the right side of his face. "But I will think of it as a part of my life that is _finished_. What else am I to do? I can concentrate on my life _now_…on loving you…and being a person apart from them."

He kissed the top of her head, and there was once again silence. All they could hear was the dripping of water along the stone, and their own breath. It was so very cold, and Marguerite pressed closer against Erik, though he obtained more warmth from her than she did from him.

Once more, Marguerite was the one to speak first, and shatter the peace of the darkness. "Erik?"

"Mmm."

"When _are_ we leaving? I mean from Paris. I don't mean to be a bother, but I do so want to get out. Especially now that…" Her words trailed off; she knew he understood what she was talking about.

"Whatever happened to not caring where you were, as long as it was with me?"

She smiled slyly. "It _is _still true. But now that I know of your house in the country, you wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you."

He lightly caressed her neck with the very tips of his fingers. "Soon," he said. "If only those men Giry hired would take a little pride in their jobs. I'm _paying _them well enough. Besides," he added, "she is going to get a few of my compositions published. Anonymously, of course."

Marguerite gasped, her face lighting up. "How absolutely marvelous! Oh, but Erik, that does not seem like something _you _would do at all. I thought you would compose until you…for the rest of your life, and only then would your music be discovered and truly appreciated for the masterful work it is. Isn't that how it usually is?"

"Not to worry. Only my most dreadful works are to be sent in. And _Don Juan Triumphant_ will never be published."

Marguerite giggled. "Then I suppose that would exclude the music you wrote for the sonnet?"

"Of course not. That is yours alone."

"All mine," she murmured, gently pulling his head to hers for a heated kiss. "Like you."

When Erik lay with her that night, she did not turn away, instead desiring the comfort of his closeness. She had not forgotten what he had said the day before, and still it worried her. He had frightened her deeply, shaken her to her core, her soul.

Even Erik's whispers were musical, words of love in her ear. At the same time, her mind raced and her heart beat a frantic rhythm. Marguerite was praying to the Lord, to the Holy Virgin, and to every saint she could think of, that they would spare her in one small way. It grieved her that she begged not to be allowed to conceive, but she had to spare herself the tragedy that would come inevitably, should her womb take seed. Unless Erik had another change of heart.

Marguerite was not sure she could ask for another such miracle.


	49. Phantom Musings

**A/N: I am 99 sure I am writing a sequel to this story when it is complete, so if you like this one, keep your eyes out. I promise, it will have a plot and everything! I don't know when _this _story will be finished, but I'm guessing it won't be very long.**

**My birthday present for this year: Tickets to see _Phantom_ onstage. I am euphoric right now.**

Disclaimer: ...People...honestly...I couldn't come up with someone as fascinating as Erik on my own.

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Marguerite must have been sleeping restlessly. Very early in the morning, she felt Erik stirring, and before the haze of sleep had cleared from her mind, she turned over and reached for him. "Is everything all right?" she murmured, eyes closed. 

"Perfectly fine," Erik said, softly kissing her before she relaxed again. "I can't rest now. There are things I must do."

"Be careful," she whispered. "Don't hurt anyone. And if you see Katie, tell her…I want to visit her again before we go…"

_She_ _must be especially tired_, Erik thought as he went out to his desk and picked up the dark bag he had prepared. _Delirious with lack of sleep_. What did she think he would do—nonchalantly stroll up to the ballerina and wish her a jolly good morning? Not exactly befitting his status as Opera Ghost, nor consistent with his lack of amiability with the girl as it was. Then again, to that _particular_ dancer, he might have lost the mystery of being the Phantom. After all, she had seen his wedding! How absurd was that?

_You _must _be insane to have allowed it_, he told himself. _Or in love_…_Or so lonely and desperate you'd agree to anything Marguerite would have asked_. His mouth tipped. Maybe…it was a little of everything. One thing was for sure; he would not have to see that little Brit ever again, once they left the city.

He felt a pang of guilt, knowing Marguerite genuinely enjoyed her company, even if Katie was a few years younger. But Erik could not help looking forward to the time, very soon now, when Marguerite would have no one's company but his own. Inwardly he berated himself for being so selfish, though it was true he wanted her all to himself, and he could not help it. But keeping her prisoner was exactly the sort of thing Marguerite had refused to allow…and what Christine had feared.

_Fool_, he thought, climbing stairs, scaling ropes, and passing through hidden corridors. _She'll make a friend in the village, or_…_something_. _You can't keep another human being completely to yourself_—_at least not forever_. _And for you it's been quite long enough_. _Hasn't she already told you how much she wants to leave this place?_

The _Opera Populaire_ held little sentiment for her. Although it _legally_ belonged to her father (though Erik would always consider it his), Marguerite had few fond memories of this place. She was used to the light, and the open air. The city of Paris had stifled her in the year or more she had lived here. Erik himself had been born in a small town, far from any large cities. Maybe this change would be good for him, better than he thought, and after he had further progressed in years, he could die like a normal man. He and Marguerite had seen enough suffering within these walls, and truthfully, he was curious to find out if she would be any different upon entering a new environment—away from the past, with nothing but the future to look at. Not that he wanted her to change…but if she did, he should be quite interested to see how.

No, he was not going to hold her prisoner. Did he not already allow her plenty of freedom? She could leave the theater whenever she wanted, though it might not be the safest thing to do; that had been proven yesterday. What had he denied her since they married?

_What am I doing?_ He was leaving the opera house—and not alone! The Phantom would probably never return to this place, his old haunting grounds. Marguerite had said that a part of her life was over, but Erik felt quite suddenly that it applied to him, as well. What _was _a life outside the _Opera Populaire _like? No more haunting and skulking around in the shadows, certainly. It had been so many years…before building the theater, working his way through France…living in Persia before that. He still had some of the jewels he had acquired there. Marguerite would have to see them, sure to be impressed and eager to hear stories of their acquisition.

With a shudder, he remembered the ring he still possessed—Christine's engagement ring, given to him so long ago. He had thought it meant something, something so deep, when she handed it over. Countless nights he had paced, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, hoping against all hope that she would return to him. Now he knew it would never happen, and he was grateful. He did not know what he would do if the woman with porcelain skin and chocolate brown curls tried to come back of her own accord.

He loved Marguerite, of course—he had come to believe it was impossible for him _not _to. He had realized that after Christine said no to him, once again, at the masquerade, even if Marguerite had not returned, he would have started to miss them _both_. Still, he did not trust himself…not if Christine wanted to come back. She had everything with Raoul, and she loved him. Erik knew it, and he _hoped_ he would never see her again. He _believed_ it. He wanted to remember her as nothing more than his pupil, the one who trusted him as the Angel of Music. If he remembered her as anything more…it was fair to no one. And if the old confusion would be reborn, should he encounter her, then it would break Marguerite's heart, and for _that_ he could never forgive himself.

He possessed more now than he had ever done before, and it amazed him, every moment. Even in the middle of a heated argument, Erik was astounded there was someone to argue _with_. Though he prided himself on being well-read and brilliant, he could not quite bring to words how grateful he really was. Marguerite cared about his health, and his work, and was just as interested in fine literature. And her contralto voice had so much potential, as well. She seemed to appreciate every little thing he did for her, and he managed to keep his dignity, on top of everything else. He had groveled at Christine's feet like a dog, and in return she had stood in awe of him. Marguerite looked him in the eyes, locked horns with him, and _sometimes_ submitted.

Thank goodness she decided she would no longer bother with those people she still called her parents. He would have a hard time convincing her to stop feeling guilty about it…among other things. With the way humanity had treated her, Erik could not understand why she was still so certain about God, and so sure there were still people on earth with good intentions. Years of mistreatment had spiritually beaten him down to the point where he became a spider, with his own hole to crawl into. Perhaps he had found his mate, but she was neither content to stay in that same hole, nor to agree with him on how to live one's life. She still wanted to be a part of the world, a part of the human race. Why? Weren't they both living proof that people were just not worth the trouble?

_What about Madame Giry? She's helping you quite a bit_. _And that little Katie has not exactly made Marguerite suffer, even if she was there when she got drunk_. _Hell, _you _were crueler to her than Katie ever was! It doesn't sound like Marguerite's mother treated her harshly yesterday, either_.

Bother them! Maybe there _were _a few exceptions. Just a few.

Erik at last reached _the _mirror, by which he had taught Christine all those years ago. Through the one-way glass, the large, empty dressing room was barely recognizable from its appearance years ago. Two paintings hung on the wall, one an uninspired still-life of flowers and fruit. The other was of a young man in hunting garb, surrounded by a group of hounds. Though he bore no physical resemblance, he reminded Erik of the Vicomte. Perhaps this boy in the portrait was a great admirer of the singer who now used this room. What a pretentious gift to have given her!

Erik quickly went to work at removing the contraption that made the mirror open like a door. With recent events, even though no one _seemed_ to be trying to open it, he had a feeling of disquiet that needed to be satisfied. Besides, he lacked the need for it. There were innumerable other methods of getting quickly around the theater, and he had no interest in the occupant of this dressing room. It was better to be safe than sorry, and even after they were gone from the city for good, he did not want his secret lair to be discovered by _anyone_. It would be a remnant, his stamp on the opera house that no one could take away.

At last the device was removed, and Erik closed the mirror one last time, sealing it up for good. One could still see into the dressing room, but that was unimportant. Picking up his bag again, he headed toward the dormitories, and the rooms Madame Giry was using.

He knocked softly on the door, but there was no answer for several minutes. Swearing softly, he turned away and retreated to a shadowy alcove to open his bag and take out several papers. They were short compositions, two for the piano and one for violin. They were unquestionably the worst of his canon, but he was fairly certain they were still much better than some of the published trash he'd managed to get his hands on in recent years.

He still would rather not publish his work, even remaining anonymous, and allow other fools to attempt performing it, raping and mangling it in the process. Restoring his house so far away, absent from the procedure, was taking a substantial sum from his coffers. He had not demanded a salary from the theater's owners for years. Outside of Paris he would have little access to his accounts. Something had to be left behind, safe, just in case, but the rest…the rest they would take with them. He was sure Marguerite would outlive him—hopefully not for a long time still—and he wanted to ensure her a comfortable future when that happened...She and Beatrice.

Sweet mercy, he thought, what if he _did _perish soon? Once they had finally moved into the country, what if he suddenly died, leaving her all alone? She had no one to help her then, to keep her company. Perhaps she _would _return to her parents…or stay in the opera house…no, not there. Erik thought of Henri, and could not keep a little hiss from escaping through his teeth. _It's not like you to worry about something so impossible_…_but very, very improbable_.

His health was fine, and he did not get himself into stupid accidents. He thought back to the village of his childhood. They had thought he was a demon or some such thing, and his mother a witch. Would the people of Eaux Froides be any different? Would he and Marguerite wake up in the middle of the night to find a mob at their door, crying for the monster's blood?

It wasn't too late. They could still stay here. It was easier to disappear, to blend in, in a city like Paris. In a small town or in the countryside, it was much more difficult. _No, I'll do it_. _I _will _do it! This is just another challenge_—_no, a change_. _Only a change_…_for the better_. _And I will prevail over it_. _There's nothing I can't do, once I've made up my mind to do it_. Hadn't he always been like that, since he was a small child?

He finished putting the compositions together and slipped them under Giry's door. He'd already told her what to do with them and where to go. As he moved down the hallway, back toward the opera house itself, he had to grin. How long would it be before Gautier knew of Giry's assistance in the corps de ballet? Madame Luvier would probably be fired if he found out she had hired Giry without his permission and was paying her a meager salary out of the dance budget. Well, that woman was a half-wit who should have been dismissed anyway, much earlier, although she was correct to ask for Giry's help. Perhaps Luvier's lack of knowledgeor enthusiasm had been ignored in the _inferior _opera house across the city, but in the _Opera Populaire_, they should have higher standards. If Erik were not trying to hide his identity now, to avoid another attempt at capture, he would have written Gautier a stern letter a year ago.

Erik climbed up above the stage, where he and Marguerite alwayswatched the performances. The auditorium rang with a tomblike silence, and it was times like these when Erik felt most in possession of his kingdom. When it was full with so many ignorant plebeians, he felt slightly out of control, and bitter…what did they _really _know about fine opera? Even Marguerite had known next to nothing about it! She had never seen one until her father bought this place. She had never _learned_ anything about it before Erik.

He smirked. The things she had to be grateful to him for…

The sound of a door jerked him back to reality. His neck prickled, and he looked around for the intruder—a lonely charwoman. Ah, yes, he had seen her before, half-blind and a bit slow; she was nothing for him to worry about. He picked up his bag and silently made his way across the catwalks, smiling to himself. Imagine how terrified that woman would be if he suddenly loosened a rope and let one of the backdrops fall to the stage, the way he had done to La Carlotta once. Oh, but it was a bit _too _cruel, and pointless, and he moved on.

_Indeed, you are going a bit soft_. _Not too much, I hope_.

Oh, there was no need to worry about _that_.

He was on his way to the chapel whenhe sensed another impostor. Ducking into a passage that took him above the corridor, he glanced around, a bit more alarmed this time. Then, he saw him, some member of the Paris police. Doubtless he was one more fool sent to divulge the secret of how Marcel D'Aubigne's body wound up in the underground lake. Damning himself, Erik thought he should have done a better job of disposing of it. Nothing could be done now, of course. What was done was done.

This fellow posed no threat, he was sure. The man was walking around with a slight stagger that betrayed his fatigue. Yes, it was still rather early in the morning; was he nearing the end of his shift? He seemed very uninterested in his job…not even making an effort, this one. In fact, Erik was almost positive he had seen this policeman before, which would explain the man's ennui. Motionless in his hiding place, Erik wondered if he ought to use his talents to send this officer on a series of red herrings that would keep him well away from any _real _clues. Perhaps he would only keep a close watch on him, just for a while.

Erik'sfingers itched for his Punjab lasso.

Hedecided to follow the stranger around a bit. Marguerite knew he was gone, and she probably was not awake yet, with no need to be. Soundlessly he followed the policeman down a few hallways, but was quickly bored. This silly man provided no excitement whatsoever. Finally, Erik was too exasperated to let things continue as they were. He used his ventriloquism skills to send his voice to a sculpture of Cupid, standing in another niche.

"_I'm here, monsieur_…"

If he hadn't possessed such self-control, Erik would have laughed out loud and given himself away. The officer jumped, silently but splendidly, and whirled around, holding up his paltry lantern, frantically trying to find the source of the voice.

"Show yourself!"

"_Here, here_," Erik's voice whispered from the statue, which the man still did not notice. "_Behind you_. _What an exceptional officer you must be!_ _Do you require specific instructions?_"

"Who are you?"

"_I am the Angel of Death, monsieur, and your time has come_…"

He was clearly shaking by now, and had finally spotted the figurine. Lovely little Cupid seemed to have become a demonic figure in his eyes. Hesitantly, he crept up to the statue and put his ear to it.

"_Yes, it is I_."

He jumped back, as if shocked with an electric current, and the voice followed him, now in his lantern.

"_I tell you, monsieur, your time has come! It is time to join me in the flames of Hell!_"

The officer uttered a rather unmanly shriek and dropped the lantern. It went out immediately, and he dashed off into the darkness of the corridor, toward the front exit. Erik allowed himself a brief, sinister chuckle before deciding he'd had enough fun for the time being. Oh, he needn't tell his lovely bride; she was certain to be annoyed with him.

Once he reached the chapel, however, something once again did not feel right. Somekind of tension seemed to be flowing upward fromthe caverns below, something dangerous.

Marguerite…he had to get back to her.

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**A/N: Yes, yes, I've left you on another cliffhanger, and I shan't apologize! So how do y'all like a mostly-Erik chapter? It was a bit difficult, but rather fun to write.**


	50. The Inevitable

**A/N: And now…another moment I think you've all been waiting for. Can't say much about this chapter except that I've been agonizing over it for several days (since the last update) and I hope it sounds all right. I never post a chapter unless I'm exceedingly happy with it, and though I'm happy with this one, I'm still going to be chewing my nails.**

**Thank you to all who wished me a happy birthday…it's not until August 7th, and I'm seeing the show on the 6th, but early birthday greetings are never unappreciated!**

**One last thing…Who here is actually going to _read_ the sequel when I write it? How about a much more slowly-updated E/C? Both? Anyone? Anyone? **—**crickets chirp**— **OK then.**

**Nade-Naberrie: **There aren't many chapters left in this story, but in the sequel there will be many, many more opportunities for an Erik POV chapter or 2

**TheWhitePrincess1:** Thank you for the Erik plushy! Now I just need to get the real thing…

**ModestySparrow09:** And you're updating…? When?

**Mominator: **Oh, I'll think of something for him to do, hehe. By the way, I still thank you for squeeing!

**Artemis12's phantom: **Your review was a joy to read! In, yes, a perfectly straight way, I love you right back. Is your story up? I want to check it out.

**Fighting-4-freedom: **So sorry about the frantic, random email, but I want to know what show you're going to because it's the same theater I'm seeing it at! That is just too weird…

**Ladyflutter:** Thanks for the tip/correction. I know I've seen that term before, and when I read your review, I got so irritated with myself that I didn't remember it. Anyway, I used it later in this chapter, as you will see! And yes, there are great aspects to the stage show (I've seen it 3 times already!), particularly how the candles look…and the Phantom's scepter with the skull…

**Artgem04: **No comment for you! Hehehe, come on, I'm talking to you right now!

Disclaimer: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

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_That is not Erik's voice_, was her first thought. She barely remembered waking up before, and even now, she might have been dreaming. In fact, she was sure of it. With a shiver from the cold air, Marguerite burrowed a little further beneath the blankets and tried to go back to sleep. Erik was speaking, but in her dream, he sounded like a different man, a stranger. 

But it was not a stranger's voice. And it was not a dream.

Sucking in her breath, she sat up like a shot, her eyes wide and fearful. What was going on? She glanced down at herself, growing warm before covering herself with the sheets again, listening attentively. Of the two she heard, she knew one of those voices. Whose was it?

"Could this be just the way he left it before he died?"

"With not a speck of dust? No, someone has been cleaning this place." The brief silence that followed was nearly unbearable.

"Should we take a look around?"

It was impossible for Marguerite to identify the voice, though she could not help but believe she knew it. Where was Erik? How did someone else get into their home, and why would they even attempt such a thing? Still trying to come up with some plan of escape—or fighting them away—she felt bile rise in her throat as she remembered something she and Erik had overheard. _He, too, is searching for her_, her father had said…Marguerite was trembling more visibly now, and not from any chill.

"Monsieur, you were the one who wanted to come down here in the first place. I am at your service, whether you decide to stay or to go. The decision is entirely yours. _Bonjour_, little kitten. What are you doing down here?" Marguerite uttered a tiny gasp when she heard the annoyed meow from outside.

"Good lord, look at that collar. Are those real jewels?"

"What kind of fool would give something so valuable to an animal to wear?" A pause. "Well, are we going to look around or not? Just say the word."

"I want to look around for myself. Keep watch…that's what you're paid for, isn't it?"

"Very well, monsieur. I'll be right here."

Marguerite flinched when someone played a note on the organ. Then she heard the violin strings being plucked curiously. _Get your hands off of my husbands possessions,_ she thought. For the first time, she wanted Erik to show up, ready to kill. Her heart was pounding as she listened to slow footsteps making their way into the corridor. What was she going to do? She felt so utterly, disgustingly defenseless. The only weapon she could use was the candelabrum, maybe, and that was across the room on the mantle, along with the vase. She could not get out of bed, unclothed as she was. Whoever was coming would be there any minute. She glanced over the side of the bed and snatched up her robe before the doorknob turned.

She prayed.

The door opened, and she was staring into the shocked face of Henri Laroche. Only once before in her life had she ever been so displeased to see another person. They looked at each other for a long time before one word was spoken. Marguerite could not help but wonder morbidly what Marcel would have done if it was he who had found her this way instead. Her thoughts were scattered and random, and she felt as though her mind was slipping away from her. She could not seem to grasp a hold of it.

"Mademoiselle…" Henri choked out. His dark, well-made clothes were dirty and torn in places, but she did not notice them at first. Had she done so, she would have wondered what route he had taken to get to the Phantom's lair. His trousers were wet up to the knees.

"Get out," she said. If she were a cat, her fur would be bristling, her tail twice its normal size.

"I wondered…I thought you would be here. What _are _you doing here?"

"I have more of a right to be here than you," she whispered harshly. "Go away!"

"Mademoiselle, please!"

"What do you _want?_" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Marguerite wished she had not asked.

"I've been looking for you. I've needed to speak with you."

"I can't talk to you."

"There's no one else down here. Well, I've got an inspector outside, on the shore, being a lookout and waiting for my orders."

"What are you going to do? Kill me? Threaten me all you want, but I'm staying right here, and you're going to _get_—_out!_"

"Of course I won't kill you. But as a matter of fact, that does bring up—"

"_How _can you be so bloody _calm?_" Marguerite shrieked. "Do you realize you are _intruding_, and _trespassing_, and violating a lady's _privacy?_ I want you out of here!"

His pale brown eyes were open wide, staring at her as though he were looking at some fascinating, yet bizarre, museum exhibition. "Mademoiselle Gautier, you must be mad! Don't you remember me? I'm not going to harm you."

Marguerite just glared at him. Her father had not been lying when he said Henri Laroche had been looking for her. Apparently, laying there and screaming at him was going to do nothing, though he did look a bit frightened—at least, alarmed. She maintained the sourest expression possible. "I haven't forgotten you, Monsieur Laroche, but I want you out of my home."

He glanced around the room. "Do you realize this is where the fabled Phantom of the Opera resided? This place is cursed, it cannot be your home! You can't remain here."

You _will be cursed when Erik returns_, she thought, while inwardly wondering whether she should tell Henri that the "fabled" Phantom was alive and well and not very far away. She had to do something _now_.

"It's not cursed," she said. "It was peaceful until you came. Why can't you leave me alone? I know what you're doing. I heard my father speaking to Monsieur and Madame D'Aubigne. But for my own mother, everyone thinks I killed him, and you are no exception!"

"Mademoiselle, I came to speak to you about that, and other—"

"Well, I've said my piece, and it's the truth. _Now _will you get out?" Caught up in her fury, she flung one arm out to point toward the door. Henri pressed his lips together, flushing. Another tremor passed through Marguerite, and she pulled the covers until they were clutched under her chin. "Leave me."

Henri took a deep breath and closed the door, then turned his back on her. She narrowed her eyes at him, surprised and livid that he was being more audacious than she would have ever given him credit for. Quickly pulling on her robe, she clambered out of bed. She stood against the wall, as far away from him as she could be, though still able to see his ears growing redder.

Hysterics were unsuccessful, so she choked back her fury and struggled to stay composed. "What made you think to look for me here?"

Henri turned around again, still so obviously embarrassed. "I saw you. Not _here_—but five floors up. Don't you remember? I was certain that was you."

"And can't you remember I ran away? Obviously I didn't want to speak to you. That evening at the bookshop…you asked me if I was all right."

"You said you were."

"Then why did you have to _come find me again?_" Her voice rose in a fierce crescendo until the last word was a high, unholy shriek. Henri looked still more shocked. This, clearly, was not the way he had imagined things going. Marguerite still could not conceive why he would seek her out so boldly. He was such an idiot to do so, so ignorant! He had no idea how brief was the remainder of his life…unless Erik could be convinced to be reasonable. That was not likely, nor was Marguerite sure she was willing to stand up for this impostor.

"Please stop. I had no intention of upsetting you like this. I only wanted to talk to you."

"Then talk and get it over with, and be gone."

"I don't understand…You were never so hostile to me before." It sounded as though his spirit had been wounded a bit. "You'd shown me nothing but the utmost cordiality, all the time I knew you before you disappeared. Why are you so upset that I am here at this moment? This place does not belong to you, you cannot be so territorial about it. It's something else, isn't it?"

_You don't know anything!_ She couldn't mention Erik and risk his life. "I didn't kill Marcel."

"I believe you…Marguerite." He appeared bashful at the use of her Christian name. She looked away, afraid of what the tone in his voice was telling her. She knew he was trying to get her to trust him. "But there are others bent on seeing you punished for the crime, even if there was a way of knowing his death was an accident somehow."

"You mean his parents." Marguerite felt her stomach tightening, remembering the anger of Marcel's mother as she railed against Gautier.

"I want to help you, and that is why I've been searching for you."

Her head snapped back to face him. "What are you talking about?"

Swallowing, he took a few steps closer. "I remember, when I first met you last fall, I'd heard you were new to Paris, here with your family. You were like no one else I'd met before, and I wanted to find out more about you."

Her gray eyes were wild as she shook her head slowly, moving toward the door. _No, not this_. _It cannot be_. _He cannot be saying these things to me_. _I didn't know, Erik, I swear I didn't know!_ She wanted to clap her hands over her ears and block him out. Last fall…in the fall, had he said these things, it might have been so different. Had she better known him when Erik began his blackmail…Dear heavens, what else might have happened?

"Mademoiselle, it's true. Now may not be the most appropriate time, and particularly so soon after his body was found. But when I saw, around Christmastime, a growing fondness between you and Marcel, I knew I might have to back down. And it was very painful to me."

"It's not what you thought," Marguerite whispered, almost without thinking. Christmastime would have been too late for him. Erik had already started to take over, in several different ways. "Please don't say anything more."

"I haven't finished yet." He took a deep breath. "Suddenly, you were gone—both of you. And when I saw you outside the bookstore, I realized that I had missed you quite a bit. I was so angry, though I didn't show it, when you said Marcel had left you. I wanted to be of some comfort to you then, and…I wish to do so now."

"I haven't asked you," Marguerite said pathetically. This was too much. She was at a loss for suitable words, and after hearing all this, she did not know how to tell Henri what she knew she had to. If Erik killed him before she could tell him, she was not sure it would be better or worse.

"I know they think you killed him. I know you just couldn't have. I can't bear the thought of you living in this"—his eyes swept upward and around the room—"this little pocket of Hell, all alone, now that I know you _are _here. I'm offering you sanctuary, Mademoiselle Gautier."

She blinked. "You mean…"

"I realize this entire situation is rather unconventional, and I'm somewhat nervous, I must admit, about the whole thing. But if you became my wife, I could protect you against those who would blame you for this tragedy. I knew him, and they trust me."

"How can _I _trust you?" she asked. _Lying little snake! Is that the first thing you can tell him?_ She began stammering and shaking her head. "No, it doesn't matter. I could not marry you."

"Mademoiselle, if it has anything to do with—"

"_Not_ 'Mademoiselle!'" she finally blurted out. "Henri Laroche, can you not see I am married?" She thrust her hand out so the plain gold band was unavoidable. "Now you must get out if you value your life…though after barging in like this I'm not sure you deserve to keep it."

A light shown in Henri's eyes, like the first rays of dawn. "The man in the cloak." He saw the color drain from her face. "Bontecou at the bookstore said you had been taken out by that hooded figure who looked like Death. I remember seeing him enter as I stood there with you. Is it _he _to whom you bound your heart?"

"Yes, and thank God for him!"

"How can you bear this? Why are you here in this godforsaken hole?"

She had to. She simply had to tell him, to clarify. "He _is _the Phantom, Henri! He is the Opera Ghost, most of all, he is _Erik!_ Why else would I be living so far beneath the world? No blasted reason at all! But he belongs to me, and I to him, and so you cannot have me."

"You _have _gone mad. The Phantom's been dead for years."

"No, it was a ruse. He's alive, and when he comes back…"

"Don't you know what that man has done?"

"I don't care. His past is filled with pain and disaster that I don't know about yet, until he is ready to tell me. What I know now is sufficient for _now_. I know what he has done for me, and that is what is really important. I know the man he really is."

"Marguerite, he's a _murderer_, and a kidnapper! Haven't you heard of Christine de Chagny?"

Marguerite glared at him. "Yes, I know of her."

"I have spoken to the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny himself, a friend of mine. From what he told me…that face…half the face of Lucifer, and a voice so intoxicating, he could lure any intelligent person into doing his evil bidding. I finally convinced Raoul to tell me about it. That's how he lured Christine down to his chambers, and Raoul only just managed to find her before the Phantom could satisfy his lust."

"Stop." Now it was Marguerite's turn to show her back to Henri, also turning furiously red. That's not how things were! She had seen the look on his face when he saw Christine that last time, when he was still offering her his soul. He did not have the eyes of a man who desired the woman for only the basest of purposes. One did not _lust _after the same person for five or six years and long for her without hope! If that were true, he would have never let her go, and Marguerite would not be there at that moment. She glanced back at Henri. "I will not listen to you."

"He's dulled your senses, Marguerite. I can see that now. Please let me help you. I could never forgive myself if I came all this way and did nothing. I'll take you away, before he can do any more damage, before you are his next victim for murder or worse!" Without thinking, he reached for her hand. She slapped him away and took the last few steps to the door. Henri grabbed her elbow just before she could yank it open, and she swung around to fight him off.

"Get away from me! He'll _kill _you if he finds you here!" She knew her face must have held a feral expression, and if he thought her insane, she could not blame him. But she was completely in her right mind. Henri had only half the story—if that.

As Henri was trying to maintain a hold on her, and also keep her calm, a corner of his mind registered that his companion had not made his presence known for quite a long time. What was he waiting for? Were Marguerite's screams not urgent enough? Concerned, Henri dropped her arm, and she backed away from him.

"Perhaps I shall need another pair of hands to get you out of here," Henri said calmly, reaching for the doorknob, his eyes fixed on her.

"When will you realize that I am _not_ crazy, and I am not going anywhere?" Yet when Henri left the room and promptly uttered a cry of disgust, she hurried out as well.

The inspector was slumped against the organ, his face swollen and blotchy, his eyes staring blankly. Henri and Marguerite both saw a solid ring of bruises from where he had been garroted to death. He might have been nearly decapitated. Sickened, Marguerite covered her mouth and looked away, turning her head in every direction to find Erik, and failing. Breathing came as a struggle for her while Henri bent to examine the corpse more closely.

At last Henri stood and approached her from behind, yelling, "What the hell is going on here?" Marguerite turned back around and shoved him.

"I warned you! Why couldn't you just leave us alone?"

"This is the thanks I get for trying to help you." Henri snorted. "How was I supposed to know? Perhaps Marcel's mother was right about you."

In an instant, Marguerite saw a flash of white behind Henri's shoulder, and then a dark whirl of cloth as she was pushed to the side. When she had steadied herself, she saw Henri slammed against the wall, somehow looking green, pale, and flushed at the same time. One of Erik's hands was clamped around his throat, and no matter how hard Henri gripped his wrist, he could not break Erik's hold. In Erik's other hand was the Punjab lasso.

"Valiant little bastard!" he rasped. "_How_ did you find your way down here?"

Henri only gagged slightly, and Marguerite felt nauseous again. "He can't speak, Erik."

"Silence!" Erik turned his burning eyes to her. "_I _will deal with this."

"Not this way, you won't! Don't you want to hear what happened _before _you kill him?" Henri looked at her pitifully, his tongue beginning to protrude from his mouth, unable to believe she would allow this to happen to him.

Erik growled and released Henri's neck from his deadly grasp. He gave him a moment to cough and sputter, and then spoke. "Tell the truth, and your death will be merciful."

"I thought—you were dead—she was—alone." Still leaning against the wall, Henri tenderly rubbed his neck.

"Then you were quite mistaken on all accounts," Erik said through his teeth. "_How did you get here?_"

"Trapdoor behind the offices…it was a maze, and then…the lake. We had to wade across it, and there was a passage, and we came through there." He pointed at the mirror frame that was the entrance to the tunnel-like corridor that led to Rue Scribe.

"Tell me why you were looking for a way down here in the first place."

"Why?" Henri looked up at Erik, almost beside himself. Marguerite scrunched up her eyes, saddened to see the young man's quiet dignity dashed to pieces by Erik's violence. "I…" He closed his mouth and glanced pleadingly at Marguerite.

"Don't look at her!" Erik said. "Look at _me!_ Your fate lies with _me!_"

"How can you keep her prisoner?" Marguerite groaned and covered her face with her hands. Erik stared at the younger man with lethal fury that radiated from his body and filled the room.

"So she's my prisoner, is she? I'm keeping her here against her will." He turned his head, almost mechanically, to Marguerite. "Is that what the lady told you?"

She stared back at him in horror. "After all this time, you dare to say that?"

"Marguerite," Henri said, "I'm sorry I caused all this tr—"

Upon hearing him use her name so familiarly, Erik lost all reins on his temper. Before anyone else could act, the rope came around Henri's neck like lightning, Erik's deft movements never tempered by years of inactivity. Henri turned a bit and staggered backward, choking again, clawing at the lasso restricting his airway.

"Erik, _no!_" Marguerite rushed forward to grasp at Erik's hands to release the rope, but with his elbow and shoulder he shoved her away again. This time she was knocked completely off-balance and fell to the floor. She grunted, pushing herself back up again. "Don't kill him, _please!_" What to do? For all her screaming and threats, she was not sure she wanted Henri to die. He obviously cared about her, and was so eager to do the right thing.

While Henri still gasped, wishing for a more gracious death, she rushed to Erik's desk and tore open the drawer. The dagger was still there, beautiful, glittering, and vicious. She grabbed the handle and turned back to Erik, but he had seen what she did and pulled Henri closer, blocking the rope from her reach.

"_Please_, Erik!" She was almost in tears. "He…he didn't know." She saw the moving muscles in Erik's jaw that meant he was clenching his teeth. He slacked off the rope just enough that his would-be victim could drag in an entire lungful of air. Erik gave Marguerite a look that plainly asked her what better course of action she had in mind.

"What do you think you're going to do with that?" His expression was eerily composed. Marguerite looked at the dagger poised in her hand, her eyebrows knitting.

"He wanted to help me."

Erik leaned closer to her, speaking in a low voice. "He knows a way down now, and he'll have the entire Paris force here. I _can't _let him go."

Marguerite rubbed her forehead, trying to think. "Isn't there anything…?"

Erik's eyes narrowed, and he hissed, "How much does he matter to you?"

"Erik, you won't _lose _me, but…I just don't want him to die." Her eyes moved to Henri, seeing him backing off a little, slowly trying to slip the noose off. Of course Erik noticed, and a second later, Henri was on the floor, pathetically clutching the rope again. His eyes bulged, and he moved his lips without a sound.

Marguerite pushed Erik as hard as she could and slashed at the rope with the dagger. With an enraged snarl, Erik grabbed the back of her robe and swung her away from the both of them. As Henri struggled with his half of the rope, Marguerite grasped Erik's jacket and pulled, trying to put as much space between the two men as possible.

"_Go!_" she screamed at Henri. "_Get away from here!_" Henri hesitated, wondering if Erik was going to hurt her. Marguerite knew he wouldn't, not really, and she gave Henri a look that repeated her words. Erik tried to fight her off, but she grasped his vest and nearly ripped it. He twisted to break away from her, but she held on, almost falling and bringing them both to the floor. When she heard running feet down the passageway, she knew Henri was out of immediate danger.

"Get off me, woman!" Erik shouted, finally succeeding at detaching her. She stood up straight, though shaking, and ready to lunge at him if he pursued Henri. "If I had killed him, we would be safe."

"I don't want you to kill again," she said, accidentally glancing at the one dead body already in the room. "And we _wouldn't _be safe. They'd know. Henri would be missing, and a gendarme, and they would put the pieces together." She bit her lip and straightened her robe. "Now what are we to do?"

He glared at her. "Not so worried about modesty with _him_, were you?"

"Erik, this is not the time…I was still abed when he came in…" She blushed. Erik clenched his eyes shut and took a few steps toward the Rue Scribe passage. "Don't!"

He looked back at her, finally realizing that she was just as eager to see less blood on his hands as she was to see Henri live. It wasn't just Henri's life he would destroy. He stared at the mirror frame for a moment and unclenched his fists. His shoulders sagged wearily.

"Gather as much as you can," he said. "We're leaving."

It was not exactly the way they planned, but Marguerite could not keep her heart from fluttering with hope, just a little.


	51. The Journey Begins

**A/N: I can't believe I've taken this long to update. I've been in a less-than-great mood, which has left me uninspired, but a few nagging fans **—wink— **(You know who you are) helped me to get back to work. I also got my E/C story up, but it's going to be an even longer time before it, too, is updated.**

**Sorry there aren't more review replies, but I had to hurry a bit in order to update today!**

**Nightkind: **Twelve hours? In a row? How can you spend that much time on this crap? LOL Although I must admit, I was quite delighted to read that.

**LenisVox:** Your reviews always make me laugh, I know I've told you that before. Anyway, Henri is out of the picture (I think…I don't know what my muse has been up to lately, but I think he's been smoking something strange) so feel free to get out that net and labeled jar.

**Ladyflutter: **I kind of made up my own little setup, and imagined there would be many routes to Erik's lair, considering how much he loves trap-doors and such. I pictured the Rue Scribe passage with a few other secret tunnels branching out, but it's really up to your own imagination(s).

**Isis42:** That's all you really have to say. That's one of the best reviews I've ever gotten!

**TheWhitePrincess1:** You have a thing with love, don't you? Hehe, "All you need is love…"

**Mominator:** Well, thank you so very much (again), and I hope the last chapter makes up for the utter hideousness that is _this _chapter!

Disclaimer: —sigh— This is really getting old

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Marguerite felt very, very ill as she stood in the middle of the bedroom, looking around for what to take—and trying not to hear Erik's attempts outside to dispose of the body. Her struggle with him had seemed to drain her physically and emotionally. 

Besides the robe she was wearing, she had two dresses, a cloak, the typical array of undergarments, and a pair of shoes. This had been _Erik's _house, and still was. She had next to nothing, but until now, had barely noticed. A hairbrush and a silver candlestick went into the bag Erik had tossed at her right after he told her to gather her most treasured articles. She was on her knees and trying to coax Beatrice out from under the bed when Erik came in.

"Shouldn't you be dressed by now?" There was a hint of uneasiness in his tone, as if he was not truly certain what to do. And no wonder. Marguerite had seen, for the first time, the results of his handiwork, one of his greatest talents. She knew he was capable of killing, but this—had it been necessary? Henri and the officer might have led others down here, but what if they could be convinced otherwise? Erik was never one to negotiate.

She never saw Marcel's dead form, and only thought of it as a problem vanquished. This morning, she had viewed the glassy, empty eyes of the corpse, the swollen and already-fleshy face, the necklace of bruises from the deadly, snakelike lasso. She had seen a new side of Erik. This was more than a flare of the temper. It went beyond self-defense. It was murder, and it frightened her.

Against her innermost confidence, she wondered if she really was safe with him. He was capable of the deepest love, the most swelling passion, honest anger, and unbending pride. It extended to his hatred as well, and into his hands, those hands which could also bring forth unspeakable beauty. The paradox of Erik did not stop at his face.

_At least I saved Henri_, she could think. Why did it give her no comfort?

In response to his bitter question, she silently stood up and retrieved her clothing. It was an anxious quiet that hummed in the air as she dressed herself in his presence, turning her back on him expectantly to tie her corset. To her slight astonishment, he complied without comment. Once the last lace was tied, she stepped away to pull on her dress, keeping her eyes averted from him. She stuffed the robe into her bag and picked it up. She walked past him toward the door, her throat aching when he reached out his hand and gently brushed her shoulder, and she shied away. She knew, she _knew_, he was trying to comfort her, to ask for her understanding, but at the moment, she could not bear to be touched by those hands.

"Marguerite…" Erik said. The pleading was subtle, but unmistakable. Marguerite bit her lip and closed her eyes. She stopped in the doorway, her every muscle tensed.

"Why?" she whispered, barely enough for him to hear.

"You won't believe I had to," he said, just as quietly. Knowing they had little time to spare, he came from behind and wrapped his arms around her, feeling her resistance. His hands slid down and rested on the stiff belly of her corset, pressing her closer to him. She kept her head lowered and her arms hanging at her sides, still clutching the bag. He did not fail to notice her shiver when his fingers moved. Sensing she did not desire contact with him then, he released her, taking a few steps back and wondering why she was so aggrieved. What had really changed? Certainly not him. As much as he tried to think how _she _would see it all, he still believed she was being unreasonable.

She had not moved from her spot, apparently waiting for his permission or something equally ridiculous. Finally she said, "It's the middle of the morning, Erik."

"And we cannot lose another moment." He easily cajoled Beatrice out from her hiding place and traded her for the bag Marguerite was holding. He took it into the main room and deposited it beside the rest of his things. He was smoothly assembling his compositions, sketches, and other papers of that kind into another bag, his calm demeanor not at all betraying the turmoil inside. "I can secure transportation for us," he said at last, "but it must be done quickly."

_Now he's going to become a thief on top of it all_, she thought, promptly hating herself for thinking such a thing.

"Get a hansom cab," she murmured, "as you did…for our wedding." Quite by accident, she lifted her eyes and caught his. Even now she knew, she _knew_, why she had married him. It was there, but her fear and the unrest of quick escape was veiling it for the time being. This was a trial; a trial like so many others she had faced. That did not mean she could let him touch her yet. "Please don't steal anything."

He frowned, both in his mouth and in his eyes. "Then how do you propose we get out of Paris undetected?"

She looked away again, having no clear answer for him. Like Erik, she had wanted a less spontaneous exit—more like preparing for a carefully executed adventure, and less like the Israelites' flight from Egypt. _Curses on you, Henri! Why did you have to do this? Are you out of the opera house yet? Have you gone to the police?_

"Beatrice will be fine," Erik said. He handed her another bag. "Put a few books in this, whichever ones you want. Leave the rest."

Marguerite glanced around the room. The beauty—his sculptures, the silver candelabrum, the wall hangings—all to be simply left behind, abandoned? Yes, she wanted to leave the underground lake and her father's opera house, and quickly, but—

"Giry will send us some of it," he said, seeming to read her thoughts again. "For now, take what you can so we can _go!_"

She went into Erik's room and was startled by the gaping void in the middle of the floor—the coffin was gone. She had not been in this room since they had been married, and so she wondered when and how he had gotten rid of it. Perhaps he had only moved it someplace else. It could have been at any time, but she had a sickening feeling he had put it to use not very long ago. It was something she would never know, and never wanted to. She steeled herself and went to the expansive bookshelves, her eyes wandering over the titles. But her mind was not focused on them. _Murderer_ echoed throughout her head. _Murderer_, like a deafening whisper.

_Why did you have to kill him?_ Ah, but he was trying to save himself—both of them—as he'd had to all his life. And then…had she really protected Henri? Was Erik even now on his way to track him down? She dropped the book she had taken from its shelf and dashed back to the main room. Erik looked up from his desk, alarmed, in the middle of writing another note. Marguerite took a deep breath.

"I thought you had gone after him," she murmured in relief. It was the wrong thing to say.

"_I _am not the one who should be expected to do such a thing," he said resentfully, dipping his pen in the ink again. "I heard enough to know that he made _you _quite an offer."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Then you must have heard my answer."

Erik smiled, a cold, dead smile that Marguerite had not seen before. "I only heard you begging him to leave before I killed him. I heard no eloquent refusal or defense on my behalf. Not that I needed it. I'm perfectly able to quell any rumors about me _myself_."

"Yes, as you did such an admirable job with the ballet girls." His eyes grew colder still, and Marguerite felt her entire upper body sag. "Please, Erik, there's no time for this."

"You are absolutely right, my dear." He quickly folded the note and sealed it with red wax, scrawling the recipient's name on the other side. "Have you gathered all you need?"

"I've gathered all I _have_," she said, half under her breath. She looked around the room once more. His desk had never been so clean—it was completely bare. And oh, the pipe organ, Erik's most treasured possession. How could he bear to leave it behind? At least he would be carrying his violin. Beatrice was restless as she moved around the floor, sensing the rapid change. Still, she did not struggle when Marguerite picked her up; she seemed to understand the urgency of the situation.

"Carry her," Erik said, standing. "I will take care of the rest."

"I've been saying all along that I want to leave Paris. But I…I never thought about leaving _this _behind." She turned to stare all around the room. "So much has happened here." That first time she had come here, against her will…the second, when she woke up on the cold, stone floor with a wet rag over her eyes…bringing Erik a belated Christmas dinner she never even knew if he ate. Then there were those weeks after Marcel…and leaving…and returning…

But now they were to leave for good. It was a new time in their lives, their _one _life, and they had to begin it. And now she had to ride in a carriage with an angry Erik. When he put on his dark cloak and picked up the few bags they had and left through the passage, she followed him silently, chewing her lip. Obviously he did not want to pause to dwell and say goodbye to this home he had created for himself, where he had existed for years.

At his instructions, she waited at Rue Scribe. She groaned as a carriage came around the corner, but when she saw Erik was not driving, her groan turned to a sigh. The driver did offer her a sort of solute with his cap, and the horse tossed his head impatiently as Erik stepped out to help her climb in.

"Wait here," he told the driver, his hood concealing his entire head, so his mask was not visible. Marguerite wondered if it only made him _more _suspicious-looking, considering it was now well into springtime and the days were getting longer and warmer. Turning back to Marguerite, Erik said, "I shall not be long. Giry has yet to receive _all _her instructions."

He was back more quickly than Marguerite had expected. Beatrice had calmed somewhat, and was now content to sit in her lap and be stroked. When the carriage started up again, driving toward the edge of the city, she raised her head and looked around, her eyes enormous. Soon the daylight was stronger, the noises of the city louder as they approached the southernmost part of the city.

"This house is not like the one your parents live in, here in Paris," Erik said, breaking a silence that had been hanging heavily over them. "You must not expect grandeur."

"I don't," she said softly, her eyes on her cat.

"Why I bought it, I still don't know," he said. "But naturally, without anyone to attend to it for several years, it would have fallen into some disrepair. So you…you must keep that in mind. Men have been working on it, but heaven knows what they've _actually _accomplished without their employer present."

"Why didn't you go there years ago?" Marguerite asked as she looked out at the streets they were passing; streets she might never see again.

After a significant pause, Erik said, "I had to stay. Just in case…" He left his sentence hanging, and in her mind, Marguerite finished it for him. _Just in case Christine changed her mind and came back on her own_. Had it really taken him five years to convince him otherwise? How disappointed he must have been when the female who crossed his path that day was not her!

She turned her head to glance at him, wearing a bemused expression. When she resumed her observation of the city, he stretched out his hand and touched hers. She flinched, and he clenched his teeth. When she did not speak, he took it up instead.

"Now I am the most repulsive thing in the world to you?"

"No, but…You have blood on your hands," she said, as low as she could, with him still able to hear her. "You frightened me."

"I _had _to do it."

She would not look at him. "I know."

He did not literally have blood on them at that moment, but he was seeing red. How could he make her understand? She said she did, but she did not. He could tell. She just wanted him to leave her alone. Well, he was not going to give her that satisfaction. Gripping her arm, he pulled her as close as he could in the already cramped confines of the carriage. She gasped and brought one arm around Beatrice to keep her still.

"How are you going to survive?" he hissed. "Out in the country, with _me!_ No Katie to run to when it gets too much to bear, no Henri coming to offer you deliverance, no Madame Giry to stand up for you. _What _are you going to do, I wonder?"

She jerked her arm away once again. "I'm going to stand up for _myself_, Erik. Haven't I always? I'm not dreading this change, you know, but for now, you're going to leave me be. I know you told me you would…take another life…if you thought we were in danger. But seeing him dead like that—Erik, do you realize how ghastly that was?"

"It's one of my areas of expertise," he said flatly. "It's the quickest way I know how to do it."

Marguerite sighed and stared straight ahead. Not a single person walking about looked familiar, but she was grateful for that. Eventually the buildings grew smaller and further apart, as well as the traffic. When it was obvious they were in the very outskirts of Paris, the carriage stopped. Marguerite leaned out the window, confused, but Erik had instructed the driver to do this. He climbed out of the carriage and stood below the driver.

"Come down here," Marguerite heard him say brusquely.

"Certainly, Messieur du Fleuve." He sounded more than a little nervous. The vehicle rocked slightly as the driver climbed down.

_Du Fleuve? Has Erik given himself that name?_

Erik handed the man a small bag, heavy with coins. "Go back. Leave this with me."

"But messieur…"

"Go! I am certain there is more in this purse than that old nag and this broken-down wagon is worth. The day is mild, and you will not meet inclement weather as you return to Paris. Now go on, before you provoke my anger."

Perplexed and speechless, the man backed away from him before finally turning and walking back in the direction of the city. Erik climbed back inside and settled beside Marguerite, rearranging the horse's reigns. He shook them, making a clicking sound with his tongue, and the horse started up again. Marguerite stared at him. After a little while, he turned to meet her eyes.

"I paid him."

"Yes, so I saw," she said. "But…" She closed both her mouth and her eyes, shaking her head. There was nothing to do now, and anyway, it was better than threatening the man with a dagger and leaving him in the dust without any kind of compensation. She would not become a nagging wife. Oh, but a Paris hansom carriage in the countryside! That would certainly set the neighbors' tongues wagging, if there were any neighbors to see them driving by. Erik did not seem to care at all what people thought of him. Marguerite thought she didn't either, but the remnants of her old life still sometimes clung to her.

The first few hours on the road were mostly spent in silence. Marguerite was thinking, since they were a good distance from the city, she ought to tell Erik _all _about the conversation between herself and Henri. He needed to understand how she had refused the young man, and that he had come, though unwelcome and quite rude, with the best of intentions—so it seemed, anyway. She tried several times to begin, but nothing sounded right even in her head, and she knew if she spoke the words aloud, it would be even worse. As she dwelled upon it, drowsiness gradually overtook her, and she dozed against Erik's shoulder.

He woke her much later, whispering, "You need to eat, and the horse needs to rest."

She yawned and rubbed her eyes, twisting her neck to look out the window again. They were on the very edge of a town, one of decent size but certainly nothing like Paris. "Is this Eaux Froides?" she asked.

"No, not for a long time. Here." He handed her a few coins. "Get yourself something to eat. I'll be here, taking care of this dilapidated beast."

"Don't you want—?" Erik gave her a look that already answered her question, and she held up her hand. "All right."

Finding a bakery was easy enough, and a place to buy cheese. She got enough for both of them, even though she knew he would probably not swallow a single bite. Now that he was quite irritated at her, and they were fugitives of sorts, Erik would probably become even more difficult. Marguerite kept her head down, embarrassed at her disheveled appearance and the obvious fact that she was not from around here.

She found Erik with the horse, unhitched, at a group of public water troughs, the carriage a short distance away. He had thrown back his hood, and an older man, the only other person at all nearby, was eyeing him with suspicion. Up close, the horse did look like she was in need of more thoughtful care, though, like Beatrice, she had quickly come to trust Erik. He certainly was not being facetious when he had said he had a way with animals.

"I brought enough for you," she said, holding out a roll. Erik had been patting the horse's flank, but he turned to look at Marguerite.

"I have no need of it," he said.

She looked down at the ground, sighing through her nose. She went over to the carriage and settled down in the grass, leaning against the wheel. She purposely did not watch when Erik led the horse back over toward her, Beatrice close at his heels. Instead, she concentrated on chewing. In another few minutes, she could not ignore the shoes in front of her eyes, or the trousers that led to the waistcoat, to the half-masked face. He did not sit down beside her, as she had wondered if he would do, but gently pulled her up to stand with him.

"Are you ready to go on?"

She nodded, eyelids low. Erik cupped her face and made her look at him.

"Marguerite…I want no animosity between us."

"No," she said, managing a small smile. "I'm all you have." She assented by wrapping her arms around his middle and hugging him tightly, her smile widening. He sighed, actually reassured, and returned the gesture before helping her back into the hansom.

"Even if I'm all you have," she said, once they were on their way again, Beatrice nestled between them, "you will _always _have me."

* * *

They made only two more long rests for the remainder of the day, not counting the occasional brief stop to stretch their legs and give the horse respite. Erik became convinced that the horse would be better off with a more quiet life, and he would restore her to better health. Marguerite just smiled and offered to help when she could. Except for being in the carriage, Beatrice was given free reign. When it was too dark to continue, the night chilled, and the horse almost past endurance, Erik pulled the carriage off the road, behind a group of trees. They might have stopped at a farm, but in the quickly departing light, it was impossible to tell. 

He pulled blankets out of one of the bags and made a sort of nest under the carriage. For a moment, his chest felt tight, the sight of the makeshift bed, surrounded by grass, reminding him of his days with the gypsies. His hands clenched into fists and his breathing came more quickly. Images of chains, iron bars, and whips came to mind, along with a sea of disgusted faces, jeering at him, some of them turning away in fear and revulsion. The clink of coins jarring each other, the endless mocking, the taste of his own blood as he was beaten, over and over again.

Marguerite approached him hesitantly from behind, seeing the changes in his posture. When she brushed her fingers against his shoulder, he started and whirled around, in one motion snatching up her wrists and slamming her to the dirt. The haze of loathing quickly cleared when he saw the terror in her eyes and realized, for a moment, he had not known her at all.

"_Mon dieu_," he said, kneeling beside her. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think it was you."

She was shaking badly, frightened half to death. "Who else did you think it was?"

"Not you." He held her head and kissed her forehead, trying to reassure her. "I was remembering the past, that's all. It caught up with me. Come, lie down under here and try to sleep."

She was not sure she wanted to sleep after that, but she settled onto the blankets and stretched out, still trembling a little, both from cold and alarm. After seeing to the horse, he joined Marguerite, pulling the extra blankets over them and holding her against him to further warm her.

"How much longer?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

"Tomorrow," he said.

They would be home tomorrow.


	52. Unwelcome Groundskeeper

**A/N: Let me just say I'm so glad everyone (at least the ones who reviewed ahem) liked Marguerite's reaction to Erik killing someone (again) and how it brings more doubt into the relationship. I couldn't let it be "Oh, no, he's dead. Oh, well! MUAH!" because...it just doesn't work that way. It MAY seem that way a bit in this chapter, but that's because her fear is overshadowed by her excitement over finally arriving at the house.**

**Well, then. This chapter certainly took a different twist, something I had thought of only about 2 chapters ago. Iam worried it won't work out, but after writing it...I'm excited, because there's a surprise in it...you'll see. I'll have to carry the consequences into the sequel, but oh well, I think I can make it work. Anyway, enough about it.**

Disclaimer: If you don't know it by now...

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Marguerite did not sleep very soundly in such a cold, damp, insecure place. It was a good explanation of why, when she woke up, she found herself clinging to Erik, one arm tight around him, her face buried in his chest. When she finally became conscious, she still had forgotten where they were, and she knocked her head on the underside of the carriage when she sat up too quickly. With a shout of pain, she clapped her hand over her head and sank back to the ground. Erik sat up more carefully and leaned over her.

"Are you all right?"

Her eyes crossed for a split second before she nodded, rubbing her head. "I think I will be." She turned her head to peer through the spokes of the wheel. "It's still very dark."

"Look over that way," Erik said, pointing in the opposite direction. "You'll see the first light of dawn."

"Oh, yes," she said. "Ah…Erik, how long were you awake?"

His mouth tipped just slightly into a grin. "I lost track of time."

"I see," she said, turning over on her stomach and crawling out from under the vehicle. There was grass in her hair, and spots of dirt on her dress, despite the blankets. She did not even want to consider all the things which could have been crawling over them last night. Erik, however, stood and began to hitch up the horse as though he had not suffered one bit. Marguerite shook her head in disbelief, walking a short distance to work out her stiff limbs. Beatrice was close by, munching on a field mouse she had caught and tired of playing with. With a shudder, Marguerite headed back to the carriage to shake out the blankets and fold them up.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Since when did you need permission?" he asked. "Or even cared if you did?"

"Never, actually. So, then…the driver yesterday? He called you 'Monsieur du Fleuve.' Is that your real surname?"

"No. I never knew mine, and never needed it anyway. But now…Well, it will make things easier. And I thought you deserved a name."

"Thank you. I certainly don't want to keep my father's." She smiled. "And after all, everyone knows 'that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'"

"How perfectly lovely and unoriginal," he said.

"I knew you'd like it."

"Charming. Now, if you don't mind, we ought to be on our way if you don't want to have to sleep out-of-doors again." He offered her his hand to climb up into the carriage again, and she took it without a moment's hesitation. Beatrice came quickly at his call, hopping aboard as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

The extra bread and cheese had become very hard overnight, but Marguerite's stomach was cramping with hunger, and she managed to chew and choke it down. Erik refused to eat it, saying "If I did not want it when it was fresh yesterday, why would I want it now?" without actually speaking the words out loud.

The French countryside rattled by beautifully, increasing Marguerite's anticipation of seeing the house for the first time. Erik had warned her not to expect opulence, but she was still eager. She felt like a child on the eve of Christmas, or her birthday—which may or may not have passed her by already, and she refused to call attention to it. They stopped at a village to rest, and she bought more food, a few bites of which Erik consented to swallow. Beatrice began to get squirmy in the cramped quarters of the hansom, and Marguerite hoped the end of their journey was near.

The sun was just beginning to burn orange rather than yellow when they passed through another town—still small, but the largest of those they had seen on their journey. She was discouraged, for it seemed they would have to spend another night on the road. Erik had said little in the past couple of hours, and by the look on his face, he seemed to be concentrating deeply on the route.

They had just driven through the town and were leaving it behind when he slowed the horse even further, turned to her, and said, "That was _Eaux Froides_."

Marguerite's lips parted in shock, and her pulse sped up. "Not really!"

"Yes. A couple more miles. I don't think it will be dark yet, either."

The last two miles were the slowest, Marguerite thought. It did not help that the horse was tired, and the hansom cab not built for long, country travel. She was craning her neck to stare out the window and leaning forward so much, Erik once pushed her back into her seat to keep her from falling out. The fields had long ago given way to thicker trees, and it was cooler in their shadows. The road curved, and they could not see what lay beyond it, except that the trees once again grew further apart. After a moment, Erik reached over and covered her eyes with one hand.

Marguerite laughed and tried to pry it off, but even then was no match for his strength. Finally she just sat still, grinning, and holding Beatrice to keep her inside as well. A whole field of butterflies hatched in her stomach when the carriage slowed even further. And then…it stopped.

She felt him shift in his seat beside her, and his hand adjust with him, but her eyes remained covered. Then she felt his mouth on hers, kissing her deeply before releasing her. The first and only thing she could see was his face. His expression was very serious and his eyes begged for approval.

"We're here."

Looking past him, she sucked in her breath sharply and clambered out of the carriage to stand and stare.

The house was low and sprawling, though at one point there was a second level, and the roof was set at varying heights. The walls were stone, thick with ivy except for large patches that had been cleared so repairs could be made. The roof had obviously undergone the most recent restoration; everything else had a slightly crumbling look about it, including the overgrown lawn. No two windows looked alike, which gave it a charming look, but they were in the worst shape of all. Several panes were missing, though Erik and Marguerite could not yet see it from their position. There had been a dirt drive, but it was barely distinguishable from the rest of the lawn. The stables further back were positively dilapidated. None of the marring was permanent, as far as Marguerite could see. After months in a dark, damp house underground a dirty city, and two days of dusty travel, this looked like paradise.

"Erik, I adore it."

He sighed. "Yes, I imagined you would."

"That is…it'll take a lot of work, won't it? But it's livable now, isn't it?"

"It has to be."

Marguerite took his hand and looked up at him. "I'll make it home, Erik. And then, when Madame Giry sends some of the other things…it will be beautiful, I promise!"

Being in so much open air was making him nervous already. Why _had _he bought this place? With just one glance at Marguerite's face, however, he was glad he had.

"Are we going in or not?" she asked lightly. She could tell that he was uneasy, but she was also determined to make this as much a home for him as any other place he had lived—more so, in fact. It was time he lived like a normal man. By this time in his life, he deserved as much. "Come on, then!" she said, wrapping one arm around his thin waist as they started toward the house.

Overall, the house really was not as bad as Erik had been expecting, even with someone working to restore it. They got out of the carriage and trod slowly up the walk, also made of stone, and though some were broken or loose, there were no weeds or grasses growing between them. The lawn was wild, and yet, as they got closer, they could see a garden peeking out the back. It should have been just as overgrown as anything else, but it appeared to have received tending, or at least an attempt at such. Considering the years of abandonment, by the time they were halfway to the front door, Erik had grown quite suspicious.

They had just reached the door when it swung open. A dark man, exotic-looking and very thin, with graying hair, stood in the doorway. The shocked expression on his face seemed to mirror theirs. Erik was looking into a pair of eyes he knew too well, like great drops of black ink. Marguerite's hand on his arm tightened.

"Erik… You are here!" the man whispered, his French thick with an accent Marguerite did not recognize.

Erik's face could not be deciphered. "Hello, daroga."

The dark man met Marguerite's eyes, his own incredulous. He turned back to Erik and said, "I was wondering if you would ever return."

"Why are you here?" Erik asked. "You're trespassing!"

He seemed to take Erik's accusation rather calmly. "Hardly. I've merely been acting as caretaker while the master of the house is away."

"Yes," Erik said acidly. "You've been doing a most admirable job. The house is in splendid condition, that I can see."

"I did the best I could," he said coolly, though his dark eyes flashed briefly. "It was a very difficult winter, and I'm not getting any younger. You ought to be grateful for what I _have _done. I don't have the funds to do much at all. You can imagine my surprise when the stonemasons showed up, and the roof workers."

Marguerite was no less than stunned herself by the way this man spoke to Erik. He was so forward, and did not back down.

"How long have you been here? I thought you'd go back to Persia." Erik seemed to be putting on a front. If he was _really_ furious about finding this foreigner in his house, Marguerite wagered Erik would have had him choking on the ground by now, and he certainly would not be speaking to him. How long had they known each other?

"You know I would have been killed. I left Paris to travel a bit," the Persian explained. "Finally I decided to come here, to see if you had fled to your other home and finally settled down." He tilted his head downward slightly, but his eyes were still on Erik. "Never for a moment did I believe you dead."

"Yet you did not return to the _Opera Populaire_."

"I heard nothing more of the Opera Ghost, even if I knew you were alive. It was closed until a year ago, after all." He shrugged, then looked at Marguerite again, warmth in his eyes. "This, I did not expect. Aren't you going to introduce me to your lady, Erik?"

"I am not sure if you deserve such civilized acknowledgement."

"Allah help you," the Persian said with a shake of his head. His small smile widened, his crow's feet deepening, when he noticed Marguerite tilt her head up to glare at Erik for his rudeness. Well, her expression was certainly not one of simpering adoration. He dropped his smile. Indeed, it made him wonder…

"Marguerite, I'd like you to meet Nadir Khan," Erik said grudgingly. "I believe I've told you about him…I knew him in Persia, but that was a long time ago."

"You know it's been since then," Nadir said, rising from the bow he had given Marguerite. "Only several years or so?"

"Yes, and he's naught but a nuisance. Pay him no heed."

"I've always preferred to think of myself as your conscience, Erik."

Smiling shyly, Marguerite spoke up, "Monsieur Khan, you'll be glad to know I've taken up that post."

He chuckled. "A great relief"—he glanced at her left hand—"Madame." He noticed Marguerite's color heighten at the title.

"You _don't _mind if we come in, do you?" Erik asked huffily. Nadir stepped sideways and made a sweeping gesture with one arm as they crossed the threshold.

The entryway was dark and narrow, partly made so by the staircase, which was obviously one of the things Nadir _had _been taking care of. To their immediate right was a dining room, and down the hall a bit, also to the right, was a kitchen. One peek inside declared it something of a mess, not to be unexpected considering it was used and inhabited by one man. They went into the parlor, to the left, and Marguerite was again taken aback, this time by the sight of a piano in the surprisingly large room. It was the item with the most dust, a thick coating. Apparently Nadir lacked musical skills, at least with that particular instrument.

She glanced at Erik and beheld in his eyes a look almost like he was greeting a long-lost, but unforgotten, lover. She and Nadir stood side by side as he hesitantly, almost shyly, approached it and gently brushed his hand against the wood, his fingers leaving a darker, clean streak as the dust was wiped away. He moved to the keys, and played a chord—promptly chasing away the magic. All three of them cringed; it was horribly out of tune.

"This will take some work," he declared.

"So will the rest of it," Marguerite said. "At least we aren't here in the dead of winter. We have the whole rest of spring and summer to open the windows and—" She stopped herself when she saw a broken widow pane, and another missing altogether. "Well, the doors, anyway. We can start fixing it up first thing tomorrow, actually."

Erik glanced at Nadir, who raised his eyebrows slightly. "I'm going to put the horse in the stables," he said to Marguerite. To Nadir, he spoke more harshly, "_Is_ there anything left of the stables?"

"Yes. My own horse is there right now."

"It's too late in the day to demand your departure, I suppose."

Nadir refused himself a smile. "Not that you would do such a thing to an old friend. I can sleep tonight as I have been doing." He nodded toward the settee, draped with two blankets—one an exotic and colorful, yet shabby pattern, and the other thick gray wool. "I would have never been so impertinent as to sleep in the owner's chambers, even if he has been gone for years."

Marguerite stood still and watched Erik leave, a little nervous about being alone with this stranger. Hadn't he been some sort of policeman in Persia? Erik had told her all kinds of things about that place, but never, to her ignorance, the very worst of it. He also did not seem to think much of leaving her with Nadir—at least, on the exterior he did not seem to.

She sat gingerly on the very edge of a dusty chair. Another hushed moment later, Nadir settled on the end of the settee. He finally cracked the heavy silence.

"Tell me, Marguerite—Madame—how in the world did you come across Erik?" As he spoke, her marveled to himself how different this young woman was from Christine Daae. Shorter, yes, and thinner. Her hair looked like a horse's mane—in the best sense—and her eyes reminded him of thunderclouds. She had a dignified, upper-class air about her, but had spoken so easily of cleaning the house herself, he was left slightly befuddled. Her dress was wrinkled and filthy from travel, and she looked as though she could do with a decent bath.

"I got lost in the opera house one day," she said, "and ran into him."

"Did he do the gallant thing and show you the way out?"

"Hardly. He threatened to kill me if I told anyone the Phantom of the Opera was still around."

"Ah," Nadir said thoughtfully. "Are you a singer, then?" She shook her head. "A dancer?"

"Even less so." She leaned forward slightly. "I wouldn't be telling you this, but Erik obviously trusts you, even if he doesn't want you here." Nadir nodded. "My father is the owner, Francois Gautier."

She was surprised, actually, that Erik _would _trust him. He was, after all, a gendarme of sorts, or had been, and she was wanted for murder. If Erik wasn't already, he would be soon. She subtly ran her increasingly damp palms along her skirt, biting her lip as well. Very unladylike.

"I'm not here to arrest you," he said. She lifted her head and met his gaze, her eyes wide. "I have no authority here in France, or in Persia, come to that." He tried to sound reassuring. "After years of seeing prisoners, I know when someone is uncomfortable with hiding something. But you needn't tell me anything you do not wish to tell."

"Thank you, monsieur." She stood up. "I suppose I should see the rest of the house now." He stood with her, giving her a little bow as she left the room.

There were two bedrooms upstairs, and a decent bathroom besides. Nadir hadn't even allowed himself use of the smaller bedroom. What a houseguest, indeed.

In the larger chamber, there were no sheets on the bed, and the window had been broken. A few glass shards were mixed on the floor, along with dead leaves. There were water stains on the walls, and, of course, the same layer of dust and grime. Maybe sleeping in the grass had not been so bad. Grimacing, Marguerite found a linen cupboard with some yellowed, moth-eaten sheets and a strong, musty smell. They would have to do for one night.

Then she realized it was dinnertime, or even past, and there were two men downstairs to feed. Well, one of them would probably not eat, but the other was a guest. "_Mon dieu_," she whispered to herself, "this is too much at once!" _Erik had you spoiled, hadn't he?_ Amazing, but true. Just another reason for her to grow up now.

By the time she had made the bed and then made a face at it, Erik was back in the house. As she came to the top of the stairs, she caught words that made her stop.

"Why is she with you, Erik? Was it her choice?"

"You don't know the first thing about it, daroga."

"I know she's the owner's daughter. She told me that much. That explains the slightly aristocratic bearing. But…she does not seem to be the type of girl who…" He shrugged. "_Your _kind. She's not as beautiful as Christine, from what I've seen of them both."

"No one is," Erik said, after a pause. "But she is…enough. More than enough. Where is she, anyway?"

"She went to look around upstairs."

"You know, daroga…Nadir…there is more to this girl than just a fine appearance."

"I would never assume otherwise."

"I will have her read to us tonight. She has the voice of a performer when she reads. Her love of literature is powerful."

"Of course…if she consents, that is."

"Naturally," Erik said, resentment in his voice. Marguerite could not help but smile to herself. This Nadir seemed to know Erik quite well, and she could not help but like him for that, even if he had said that about Christine.

_It's true enough, though,_ she thought. _I don't hold a candle to her when it comes to appearance_. _But she has the vicomte and his estate, and all the talent in the world_. _I have Erik_. _Everyone wins, yes?_

She wiped her dusty hands on her just-as-dusty dress, smoothed her hair, and went back downstairs. Stepping into the room, she immediately crossed the floor to Erik's side, linking her arm with his. She offered Nadir a friendly smile, but he read the message behind it. _I am here by choice_. The girl had heard everything they said.

"What about supper?" she asked. "I don't have any idea—"

"If you please, madame," Nadir said. "It doesn't nearly pay for the time I've spent here, but I would like to put something on the table for you myself…for both of you."

"It _is _the very least you could do," Erik said, placing a hand on Marguerite's shoulder.

"Well, I'm sure he didn't realize you would be coming back to claim your property," Marguerite said. "Otherwise, perhaps the bed would be made, and the piano a bit cleaned up." Her smile broadened, but Nadir inclined his head.

"I'm afraid I have neglected many things which only a woman's eye would take notice of. If you will excuse me, I'll make a start on supper."

"The two most resourceful men I've ever met," Marguerite said when Nadir had left the room, "and under the same roof."

"I can't believe he found this place," Erik growled. "He's always been intolerable."

"I thought he was your friend in Persia."

He snorted. "If you can call it that. He came looking for me in Russia, by order of the shah, who needed more titillating entertainment."

"Odd," she said. "I thought a place as exotic as Persia would have the best magicians and trained animals in the world. Why would he need another one?" She smiled gently and glanced up at him once more. "Even if you really _are_ the best."

Erik shrugged, turning away on the pretense of more closely inspecting the piano. He almost found himself praying, praying that Nadir would not do anything so stupid as let slip what Erik had _really _been paid to do in Mazenderan. If Marguerite was so distraught by his killing one man in self-preservation…what would she think if she knew of the countless tortures at his hand?


	53. Home Sweet Home

**A/N: I am being begged, pleaded, threatened, and bribed. Therefore, a new, crappy, very short chapter is up. This is the LAST time I succumb to bribes and pleads and threats from a couple of my more _nagging_ fans (YES! I said it again!). From now on I'm going to heed the advice of WhitePrincess1 and write at my _own_ pace, for my _own _enjoyment. cough cough You know who you are. Although I must admit the reward was...very nice.**

Disclaimer: I get no royalties or anythingfor this...except for a lot of pain and anguish...please don't sue me

* * *

The next morning, Marguerite took an hour to start cleaning, mostly because she did not know how or where to begin. Proper supplies—brooms, buckets, soap, and rags—had to be recovered from being scattered throughout the house. Though Nadir had done his best to care for the place, he had not been the most fastidious. 

It had been well over a year since she had cleaned so much as a wardrobe by herself, so she started on the entryway, devoid of furniture and decorations, just to get her bearings. She threw open the kitchen's back door, then the front, allowing the crisp morning breeze to sweep through. After a restless sleep the previous night, the fresh air was a massive relief. Her lungs had felt congested amid the dust built up over the years, with that revolting, musty smell. Erik, always so polished and meticulous, had lain with taut, tense muscles—just as disgusted, if not more so. She figured he must have hardly slept at all, instead escaping the suffocating room to move about at night, as he was already inclined to do.

Erik spent part of the morning inspecting the roof. When he declared his approval of its repair, both Nadir and Marguerite had to hide their surprise. As she swept the floor, half the straw missing from the broom, Marguerite sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Madame Giryand her excellent judgment.

By the time she was on her hands and knees with a bucket of wet, soapy water and a cloth, Erik and Nadir had disappeared into the stables. For some time, Marguerite had vaguely known about Erik's architectural skills, but had never witnessed them put to use. She quietly observed his banter with Nadir, discussing what else was to be done with the house and stables, and realized Erik was just as comfortable there, too. In his element—just as if he had raised a violin to his shoulder.

Despite the window being broken, she gently ran a damp rag over the glass, increasing the amount of light allowed to shine through.

"Erik will be sending away for new panes, I imagine," Nadir said from behind, startling her.

She whirled around, placing a hand over her heart, and finally smiled. "I certainly hope so."

He cleared his throat. "Madame, I wanted to come and show you, since it is very nearly midday, what I have done with the garden. I thought you would want to know what exactly is there, and how far along it is, since I daresay you'll be using it."

"Oh," she said, distant surprise in her voice, as if she had not even thought of that. "If you wish. I suppose that would be a good thing."

Nadir offered her his arm, and she took it with a smile, suppressing a giggle. She certainly was not used to being treated as the lady of the house. Not that Erik was cruel, but she was not used to such a servile attitude, even when she had been with her parents and actually _had _servants. It was all quite amusing. She noticed he even steered her around the outside of the house, so as to avoid treading on her newly clean floor.

"I've done my absolute best in caring for these things. Most of it is inedible yet," he said, pointing to the rows of green sprouts, "but it won't be very long. Once I leave, I'm sure Erik will take up some of the responsibility, so you needn't worry excessively. Unless you enjoy this sort of thing, of course."

"You aren't leaving soon, are you?" She had only just gotten to meet this man, and she was insatiably curious about any "friend" of Erik's she might meet, though she suspected this Persian was the only one. In particular, she wanted to convince Nadir how well-suited she was for Erik, despite whatever he may say about Christine de Chagny.

"I fear my presence will bring pointless tension. And after all, I was uninvited to begin with."

"But where will you go?"

Nadir raised his eyes to the shallow hills in the horizon. "I will find my way, never you mind. There's no need to waste a moment of thought on my behalf, madame."

"If you insist," she said. "But I must say, despite the fact that he hides it quite well, I think Erik is glad you're here. I believe it's good for him. A woman—a wife—can only provide so much companionship." How had those words slipped through her lips? She had not intentionally guarded her tongue in the Persian's presence, but had not meant to say quite so much. Still, she knew there was no harm in it. She swept her eyes over the growing plants again, unable to find one single weed. Horticulture was obviously something in which Nadir _was _gifted.

"You must come first, though," Nadir said.

"Oh, no doubt of it," Marguerite agreed with a nod. She looked up again. "Thank you kindly, Monsieur Khan. You've been most helpful, but now I have to move along with cleaning. And some kind of midday meal—"

"—Which I will take care of," he offered. "Do allow me."

She only nodded again. Back in the house, she moved on to cleaningthe parlor. She opened the windows (the ones yet unbroken) and dragged an upholstered chair out the front door, away from the doorway and windows. Hurrying to the edge of the trees, where the woods began, she grabbed the largest, smoothest stick she could find, and returned to the chair. She gripped the stick, raised it above her shoulder, and commenced beating the chair repeatedly. Just as she expected, large clouds of dust rose up from the fabric, making her sneeze. When the wind turned in her direction and brought the clouds into her face, her eyes began to burn.

"If that chair offends you so, we can just get rid of it," Erik's voice carried to her ears.

She glanced back at him with a knowing smile. "I couldn't find a rug beater anywhere, and this is just…well, look at it." She took another swing at the furniture, and it coughed up more grimy mist.

"Perhaps if you instead boiled those bedsheets," Erik suggested, "and hung them out, they would be dry enough for tonight. I suppose that is more important than dusting a chair."

Marguerite squinted slightly. "Perhaps if you did some of this, it would _all _be finished faster!"

Erik tilted his chin upward slightly, his whitemask almost blinding in the sunlight. "Very well. I'll just let the stables collapse in on the horses, shall I? Then you can _walk_ the few miles into town if you want soap or tea."

Marguerite frowned and raised the stick as if to hit him with it, then quickly turned and beat the chair again, not saying another word.

* * *

With so much to be done, the days blurred into several weeks, all filled with activity. Perhaps they were not particularly pleasant activities, but they were rewarding just the same. It took about a week and a half before Marguerite had gotten the house to a state that needed only the usual, daily cleaning. Sleeping at night was much more comfortable, and she stopped sneezing. She became familiar with the garden under Nadir's coaching, as well as the kitchen. When the house's interior was sorted out, she moved outdoors to clear away weeds that had been choking the wildflowers. 

Erik was less than willing to take a day trip into town; he sent Nadir instead for any other supplies they needed. Unwilling to make a first trip to town in the company of a man _other_ than Erik, Marguerite stayed behind, as well. She wondered if Nadir at all resented the obvious fact that Erik treated him as something between friend and slave, but the Persian made no comment about it. He seemed to have learned to choose his battles, as Marguerite was still discovering. Then again, perhaps he was only too willing to help.

The downside to getting things sorted out at last was that it left Marguerite time to be lonely. Oh, she still had Erik—he entertained them with music in the evenings, both he and Nadir amused her with more pleasant stories of Persia, and Marguerite read aloud, to their enjoyment. When they were alone, Erik drew her close, when both of them were not too weary from the day's work. But when Marguerite's memory drifted to Katie, and Charlotte and Estelle, she craved the company of another woman. By no means did Beatrice count. It was especially painful when Erik and Nadir were occupied with the horses, or while Erik sat at the piano and composed, an invisible wall separating him from the world.

About three weeks after their arrival, she was sitting on the front stoop, sewing a new frock with cloth Nadir had bought at her request. A slight smile playing about her lips, she watched Beatrice chase butterflies. She sensed someone standing behind her, and was slightly disappointed to see the Persian.

"May I?" he asked.

"Of course." She scooted a little further to the right, giving him room.

Once he was seated beside her, Nadir said, "I hope you will forgive my extended stay, madame. No doubt you wish to have Erik's full attention once more."

"I couldn't possibly have such selfish thoughts when you've been so helpful," she said. "But…where is he right now?"

Nadir sighed. "I keep telling him that nag he brought from Paris is an absolutely worthless beast. _Stealing _it would have been too expensive." Marguerite chuckled a little. "But you know how stubborn your husband is. He's determined it will make a fine animal, under the right care."

"Well, you know how brilliant is, and shouldn't argue with him."

Nadir nodded. "You're quite correct." He looked down at the cloth in her lap. "I did get the right kind, did I?"

"This is just fine. You know, Monsieur Khan, I must tell you—it's my fault Erik spent so much money on the horse. He _was _going to steal one, I'd wager."

"And you convinced him otherwise?"

She gave a little wave of her hand. "Somehow."

"That is certainly something to brag about."

Marguerite noticed his eyes darken. "It wouldn't have been the first time, would it?" she asked. She saw his Adam's apple working as he swallowed. He looked down at a rip in the knee of his trousers.

"Erik seems to have changed a bit. I suppose he has you to thank for it."

"You did not answer my question."

Nadir finally met her eyes. "No. It would not have been the first time he'd stolen anything. Halfhis wealth from Persia was not exactly earned honestly."

Marguerite bit her lip. "Monsieur Khan…What happened to Erik in Persia? He won't tell me everything…He only gives me fairy tales, and I know he's suffered too much."

"I don't think it's my place to tell you."

"You knew him there. You're his friend. And he will tell me _nothing_."

"He probably has his reasons—"

"Be careful, daroga," Erik said, coming around the corner. Both Nadir and Marguerite froze, the color draining from Marguerite's face. "If I find you alone with my wife again, I'll think you are up to something." Neither of them could determine if he had actually heard their entire conversation or not. He wore an expression of obscure amusement, which may or may not have been a disguise in itself.

"Just having a chat, Erik," Nadir said calmly, standing up. "You _must _know how female company is so much more preferable to yours."

Erik gave him a dark look and went inside; in a moment, sensual piano chords drifted on the breeze, setting both Nadir and Marguerite at unease.He glanced at Marguerite, quickly recognizing the hunger shining in her eyes. For a moment, it cleared, and she tilted her head to look up at him, as sober as could be.

"This conversation is not finished yet," she whispered, standing up as well and stepping past him to enter the house.


	54. Denial

**A/N: MUA HA HA, and now I have made you wait a little longer, haven't I? HA HA HA. Well…I think this is the second to the last chapter. I really do. Maybe not, but I think so. Savor this moment.**

Disclaimer: ...urgh… 

* * *

Though the absolute hardest work was done, Marguerite still marveled at how quickly the day's hours were filled. Basic cleaning took up enough time, along with sewing, cooking, and pulling weeds. She had never worked so hard in her life, even in Saint-Marie—they had lived in town, without much of a yard, and more easily accessible goods. When she was working inside, turning the house into a home, she had to put up with incessant pounding and scraping sounds—punctuated by the occasional curse—as Erik worked on the exterior himself. The roof, it turned out, was the _only_ thing that had been repaired to Erik's satisfaction. 

Late one morning, Marguerite was wiping sweat from her forehead, removing bread from the oven and praying for a stronger breeze. She heard several wagons rattling up to the house. Horses snorted and restlessly pawed at the ground while men shouted and called to each other. Curious, she went to the front door and peered out the window beside it. A small group of men dressed for manual labor were unloading tools from the wagons. Had Erik sent for them and not warned her?

In the blink of an eye, it seemed, Nadir was approaching the group. He was either unaware of the mocking laughter and thumbs jerked in his direction, or chose to ignore it.

"Still in charge, old man?" one of them asked.

"It's quite late in the day to be starting this work, isn't it?" Nadir said evenly. "Particularly after none of you have shown up for weeks."

"If I recall correctly," another man spoke up, "we don't take orders from _you_. So why don't you just stay out of it?"

_Impertinent dogs,_ Marguerite thought.

"That's true," Nadir said, "but the landlord is here now."

"Come off it," yet another man said with a laugh. "By now we've figured out it doesn't matter how late we get here. The old crackpot in Paris who owns this hole certainly won't know."

"And you're not going to tell him," the first man said, "are you?"

Marguerite closed her eyes and sighed, straightening up and letting the curtain fall back. She was not going to expend any amount of force trying to save _their _necks. Stupid fools. No one seemed to care about someone else's property; no one gave a damn about a job well done. Sometimes Erik's demands for perfection were a little unrealistic, but after seeing these men, she could not blame him for being irritated at shoddy work.

The Persian's words carried through the broken window. "There will be no need to _tell _him."

"_Mon dieu!_" several of the workers cried out.

"That is the man to whom you must explain yourselves—your carelessness, and your lengthy absence from a job you were commissioned to do." Turning away from the window, Marguerite smiled and silently applauded Nadir's steady speech.

"Monsieur…"

"We had no word of your arrival…"

"I assure you, had we known…"

Marguerite fell to her knees to look out the window again. Erik was there now, one hand dangerously gripping some masonry tool, his shirt damp from work, and his mask firmly in place. How unpleasant it must have been in the late spring sun! She sighed, annoyed at herself; Erik was doubtless going to take out a few laborers, and she wondered if his mask was comfortable. He came very close to the men, towering over them all. He spoke with a voice so low she could not catch the words, but they quickly backed away and returned to their wagons. The sounds of wheels and horses' hooves were soon fading away down the road.

Marguerite went out the front door and down the stone path a bit. Shading her eyes and looking into the distance, she said, "I suppose I shouldn't expect guests for dinner, then."

Erik turned to her, not a bit of humor shining in his eyes or twitching around his mouth. "Should I tell Giry about this? It was her decision to hire them."

Marguerite blinked several times, dumbfounded. Had he just asked for her advice? "No," she answered with a light shake of her head. "She had no way of knowing. No one is going to repair the house the way you want except _you_. Forget all this happened and just finish it yourself."

With one curt nod, Erik went back around the corner to where he had been working before. Nadir lingered behind only enough to raise his eyebrows at Marguerite in surprise, and then he followed. Ever since their interrupted conversation, the Persian had not-so-subtly avoided Marguerite's company without Erik present. She wondered if he deemed it improper, or if he wanted to evade any further questions she might ask. Wisely enough, she guessed it was both.

* * *

After they first arrived, it had taken her only three days to find her favorite spot on the entire property. A two minute's walk to the west, and the ground sloped upward to form a grassy hill. Once at the top, a wide creek could be seen down the opposite side. Not twenty feet away, the woods began. It was her favorite view—the thickening of trees, more distant hills, and gurgling water below. On the clearest days, she could see another building, far in the distance. Looking the other way, however, the road curved into trees too thick to see to Eaux Froides. 

_Soon,_ she told herself. _I'll get him there soon enough_. Poor Erik. Her throat contracted when she thought of his humiliation, his hurt, and how there was so much she was incapable of eliminating on her own. He would naturally be reluctant—such an understatement—to have many strangers all at once see his half-masked face. How could it be simply explained away? It would be harder in a small town; anyone could get lost in Paris. _Except myself_. It seemed no matter where she went, someone she did not want to see was bound to find her. Her mother saw her, and Henri, and—her stomach jumped—Marcel. Perhaps she needed a mask more than Erik. _Not here, though_. _It's going to be different here, away from Paris_. _It's all new_; _no one knows us_. Well, she hadn't counted on the addition of Nadir, but he seemed perfectly harmless, even if he did used to work in the Persian government.

She bit her lower lip, her eyes drifting over the horizon as she tried to re-focus her thoughts somewhere else. Anxiety had been encroaching and increasing for the past few days, and she did not want to dwell upon it. But if it were true…_No,_ she thought. _I will think of something else_.

Spring had never looked so lovely. A year ago at this time…It was so strange to remember! She smiled and turned to go back to the house. The men would be hungry, as she was. After weeks of physical labor and sunshine, even Erik had to take in more nourishment than he had in a long time—albeit still far, far less than any normal man. He had a slightly healthier look now, but a sense of woe still hung about him. It might never completely disappear.

As she waited for the meal to cool, Marguerite filled a bucket with water and placed a dipper inside. Stepping out once more into the cheerful sunlight and balmy breeze, she went around to the back of the house and found them. Erik was impatiently pointing out flaws in the house's exterior yet to be fixed. Marguerite put on a cheerful smile as she approached them and wordlessly set down the pail. When she straightened back up, she saw Erik drawing closer, and her stomach flipped over. He stood very close to her, and she tilted her head back, looking up at his face.

"You needn't wear your mask, my love," she said. "Not here, not in our company." She glanced at Nadir, for the first time really and truly resenting his presence.

"All the better for you," he said. His eyes swept down to the bucket. "Thank you."

"For both of you. If you'll come in a few minutes, I have a meal prepared. Oh…and Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Erm…I need a few things—sugar, meat, and…and I may need more cloth. I have lots of sewing to do." She refrained from holding her breath in anticipation, as much as she wanted to.

Erik turned to Nadir. "It looks as though you'll be making another trip to town."

The Persian's face did not so much as twitch under Erik's somewhat callous orders.

Marguerite took a deep breath. "I was rather hoping that…you and I could go."

Her husband's eyelids drooped slightly as he looked down at her, giving her his familiar you-must-be-a-fool-if-you-expect-me-to-agree look. "Nadir can go. Don't worry about it. He has not failed you yet, has he?" There was a tone, a special tone in the way Erik said it, about which Marguerite was not entirely sure.

"No, he has not," she said, lowering her chin so that it was parallel to the ground. It seemed she had given up. Nadir was surprised—so easily? But then she briefly looked at him again, and when their eyes met in that instant, her thoughts were transparent. _You just wait_. To Erik, she simply nodded demurely and returned to the house's inside.

Nadir could not hide the tiny smirk, the little tip of his mouth, as he watched Erik watching Marguerite. His jaw was set, determined to be stubborn as usual. At the height of heated obsession, Erik would have given Christine Daae anything she asked for. If she had needed another arm, he would have eagerly taken a knife to his own shoulder. But Erik under the shelter of what seemed to be nothing but the sincerest love? He was a bit more malleable, only slightly, but still so much himself…yet not. He was more human than ever before, in the many years Nadir had known the Opera Ghost. Thus far, the Persian had been astounded each and every day.

And yet, he wondered if Erik noticed…Being married before, he felt he was in a position to give advice. Unfortunately, Erik was almost never in a position to receive it. Still, he thought he might bring it to his friend's attention—though it was more than likely it had _not _escaped Erik—that his wife seemed a bit more withdrawn lately. It was almost as if she were closing in upon herself. A trip to town would probably be the best thing for her.

"Well, Erik," he said, after taking a generous gulp of water, "though you may stay and work yourself to death, I'm famished." As soon as he headed back to the house, Erik was beside him, and Nadir had to once again withhold his satisfied smile.

* * *

"_Please_, Erik?" Marguerite was apparently not above some slight begging. "I promise you, nothing will happen." She looked at him with eyes that had, until that moment, only been seen on bloodhound puppies. 

Erik glanced at Nadir, irritated that he was a witness to this whole pathetic exchange. The Persian only tipped up a corner of his mouth and raised his graying eyebrows. Erik sighed and turned back to Marguerite, who had lost her sad-puppy-look. She folded her arms across her chest; if Nadir had thought her eyes looked like thunderclouds before, he was sure he could see lightning in them now.

"I shall have to go _sometime_," she said. "_You _will have to go sometime." Lowering her arms, she searched her eyes. "You can't trap me here. Eventually I'll go by myself if you won't go. What are you planning to do when Nadir leaves us for good?" She nodded toward the Persian.

A few weeks ago, Nadir would have found a quiet moment to approach Marguerite alone and warn her—just in case she had not figured out already—that Erik was very stubborn, with a bad temper if provoked. Now, after knowing Erik's bride for almost a month, Nadir was never sure who would back down first when a spat arose between them. Fortunately there had been very few of those, but the ones that had come up were enough to convince Nadir that Marguerite was not quite as meek as she often seemed, though obviously devoted to Erik.

Nadir left the room, and then the house, unwilling to further watch the scene. He almost tripped on Beatrice's sleeping form on the front stoop. Cats! She looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

"You're in the country now," he muttered to the feline in his native tongue. "That collar is too fine to wear around here, don't you think? There is no shortage of rogues on these country roads only too eager to skin an innocent creature to lay their hands on something like that." Of course Beatrice hadn't understood a single word; she just closed her eyes and went back to sleep. The collar, yet another purloined Persian artifact, had been worn by Erik's cat, Ayesha. The dazzling jewels around the neck of a sleek, blue-eyed Siamese had been a splendid sight. Seeing them worn by an orange-brown tabby was almost comical.

Nadir decided to go to the stables and check on his own horse, Cyrus. Right before he went beyond earshot of the house, he heard Marguerite saying, "I _know_ you go places, Erik! I think you're just being unreasonable." Nadir did not bother to hide his smile now, being alone. Somehow, he thought it would be evilly ironic if Marguerite became an insufferable, nagging matron.

_No_, he thought, taking slow, leisurely strides to the stables. _She's just adamant_—_passionate_—_stubborn_—_Rather like Erik, actually_. _Has she always been like this,_ he wondered, _or did Erik somehow draw it out from deep within her?_

Not twenty minutes after leaving the house, he was standing, quietly speaking to Cyrus, he heard the doors flying open and slamming against the wall. Erik came storming into the stables, yanking the bit and bridle from their hooks on the wall. A few strokes of Penelope's shiny brown neck, and his heated temper cooled a little. Nadir hung back; Erik noticed anyway.

"We will be back before nightfall," he said tersely. A dogcart had replaced the hansom a fortnight before. Erik had driven off in the hansom and returned in the smaller country carriage, and neither Marguerite nor Nadir asked any questions.

Only after he had hitched the horse to the carriage did Nadir release the laughter he had been holding inside, both at Erik's expense and at Marguerite's triumph. He would never know how she did it, but a greater respect for the young woman had bloomed in the past few minutes.

* * *

If she stayed this distant from him, she would be letting his frustration separate them. If she tried to touch him gently, he would think she was being sweet only because she had gotten her way. Marguerite gnawed the tip of her tongue and kept her eyes glued to the horizon. The midday sun was slightly tempered now by the appearance of a few large, fluffy clouds, but Erik kept his heavy black cloak on, the cowl obscuring his face. He would be furious if she told him he seemed to be pouting like a child forced to attend church. 

"Thank you, Erik," she said. "It will be all right, you'll see."

By the time they saw more buildings in the distance, she had given up on carrying a conversation. Several carriages passed them as they drew closer and the drivers nodded politely in their direction. Any smiles that had been close to forming on their lips were quickly forgotten when they saw the hooded figure, but Marguerite tried to appear as friendly as was feasible.

Erik stopped the horse in front of a store, hesitating for a moment when it appeared to be one of the most frequented. Marguerite did not even wait for him to tie up Penelope or even get out before she hopped down herself and went inside. A few of the other customers glanced at her with mild curiosity; the town was still small enough to take notice of a new face. She smiled shyly at them, wandering around to get herself familiar. Several patrons left, and a few others came in, but still she lingered, even after finding the items she needed.

"Can I help you with anything?" an older woman finally asked.

"I think I have it all," Marguerite said.

"This is the best cheese in France," the shopkeeper said proudly, once Marguerite had stepped up to the counter and laid out her selections. "My brother sends it to me."

"I'm sure it's wonderful," Marguerite said. The door opened again, and Erik entered the store. His presence seemed to swallow up the interior. The woman behind the counter seemed to have grown paler in the course of a few seconds.

"Can I…I get you…anything else?" the woman asked Marguerite.

"I don't know," she said, her voice dropping in volume. "My husband, he may want—" She was interrupted by her own gasp. Erik had come up behind her, startling her.

"I need nothing."

"Very well." Once back out at the carriage, she glanced over all the other establishments available and pointed to a milliner's. "There. It will have the cloth I want." She hurried off, leaving Erik even more exasperated and determined not to follow. The milliner's shop was almost empty, except for two women chatting over the counter. When she closed the door behind her, they stopped talking to look at her, smiling.

"_Bonjour_," the woman across the counter said. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Yes, indeed," Marguerite said. "If you don't mind, I'll just…have a look around."

"Not at all." But when Marguerite stopped to look over bolts of fabric, the clerk stepped out from behind the counter and selected one.

"This would look lovely with your coloring, my dear," she said. "I have patterns of the latest Parisian styles, if you'd like to see them."

Marguerite finally met her eyes. "I need white muslin, for certain."

"Of course." She retrieved a bolt of such and placed it on the counter. "Are you just passing through town? Forgive me, but I don't remember ever seeing you before."

"I have a—that is, my husband and I—we have a home a few miles away. We've been there about a month, but this is my first trip into town."

"How lovely," the older woman said. "I am Claire Tournier. This is my good friend, Madame Marie Busque. Her husband is Jean Busque, the doctor in town."

"Oh, well, then I'm most pleased to meet _you_!" It was meant as a little joke. Doctors were always good people to be friendly with.

Madame Busque chuckled and glanced over her. "Most assuredly you are, Madame—?"

"Marguerite… du Fleuve." She briefly examined the cloth Madame Tournier showed her. "I'll take that, as well."

"You'll need thread, I imagine."

"Yes."

In a few minutes, the three women were chatting happily as the older two helped her choose fabrics, patterns, buttons, and threads, sharing helpful tips. Then, quite suddenly, Madame Busque blithely suggested the best fabric and methods in sewing baby's clothing and diapers.

"_What?_" Marguerite gasped, dropping the thread she had been holding. "But Madame—"

"You'll have plenty of time to prepare, of course."

"Madame, I'm not…That is to say…I'm not going to have a baby!" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt her face practically burst into flame, it became so warm.

Madame Tournier smiled in a knowing way, glancing at her friend. "It seems I neglected to mention that, besides being married to the doctor, our dear Marie here is the local midwife."

Madame Busque gave Marguerite the same type of smile and leaned toward her a little. "Mark my words, young madame," she said, her voice low and confidential, "in a few weeks you'll be wanting to come back and visit me. And you'll be eating your words as well! I've never been mistaken yet."

Marguerite frowned, a terrible feeling forming in her stomach. "Consider this the first time, then," she said, picking up her purchases. "I must be going. It was nice to meet you, Madame Busque, Madame Tournier. Thank you for your…help. Good day." With that, she hurried out of the shop, feeling not only too warm but also very short of breath. How had a woman who had known her for fifteen minutes read her mind? It had been a weight upon her thinking for the past few days. Without looking where she was going, she started off in the vague direction of the carriage, accidentally bumping into another young woman about her age.

"My fault," she mumbled, not hearing the woman's indignant, huffy tones as she continued on her way. She halted again when a dark figure stepped in front of her, and her heart almost stopped. Her lips parted to let in extra air, and she lifted her eyes, then her chin, to look up at Erik. The hood was not pulled up, but she had hardly noticed; her brain was still quite foggy.

"Have you found all you need?" he asked.

She nodded dumbly, and he took the packages from her and put them in the carriage. She hardly felt his hand close around hers as he helped her up into the seat. Fortunately, Erik was quiet, though he seemed in better spirits (no doubt because they were leaving). She would not have heard a word even if he had spoken!

Her mind was racing along much faster than Penelope's easy trotting. She had suspected for a week now. Could it be so obvious, so soon? Madame Busque must have been very gifted to notice. She felt her cheeks, still flushed, and wondered if there was something in her skin, or her eyes. It could not be excitement that shone in them; she was filled with dread. She had not forgotten Erik's reaction when she asked him about children. How was she to tell him? What would he do? _It has to be a mistake_, she thought. _Yes, it is a mistake_. _I'm just_…_just late, that's all_. A week, and the expected blood had not appeared. It was the first time in her life anything like this had happened. She had always been very regular. Still…it still could be…it _had _to be…

When had it happened? It couldn't have been more than a month…

_Why didn't you listen to me?_ she cried out in her mind. _Holy Virgin, I was begging you_…_O Father in heaven, why didn't you come to my aid?_ She didn't know. She could have done something else to prevent this, but she didn't know what. No one had told her how. She never thought Erik would be so steadfastly opposed to the idea of children. Her hand drifted down from her face to rest against her belly. _Is there really a child in here now?_

No. It was a mistake. That silly woman had erred, and surely everyone had to be wrong _sometimes_ in their life. She would have to just wait and see. It was still too early to tell…only to _suspect_. And suspicions turned out wrong all the time.

"Does your stomach hurt?" Erik asked, and somehow his voice broke through the multitude of thoughts storming around in her head.

"No," she whispered, her expression vacant, her eyes staring straight ahead as she moved her hand away.


	55. The Proper Remedy

**A/N: Well…I've finally written this chapter. It's quite different from how I thought it was going to turn out, but I think it works. Very intense…I think I cried a wee bit as I wrote it. I _knew_ I should not have named the town doctor Etienne, forgetting about Dr. Etienne Barye in Kay's _Phantom_, so I went back and changed it to Jean. And there is a strong reference to Kay in this chapter, but it popped up in my head and I realized I had to use it.**

Disclaimer: Oh, please

* * *

Marguerite did such a good job of convincing herself she was not _really_ going to have a child that several more days passed, and then a week, until the idea was shoved into the back of her mind. It was very nearly forgotten.

One evening, in preparing supper after another hard day's work, she was cutting up onions. The pungent odor drifted up to her nostrils, and very quickly a wave of nausea swept down her throat, into her stomach, and back again. Dropping the knife to the table, she turned around and barely made it out the back door before she leaned against the stone wall and retched. There was very little to bring up, most of it burning in her throat.

Here, again, was something else that had never happened to her before. The signs seemed to be trickling in, and soon she could not even attempt to ignore the blatant evidence. She coughed and sank to her knees, wrapping her arms around her flat belly, a strange mixture of wonder, joy, and terror sweeping through her.

_I'm going to be a mother, _she thought immediately.

The second thing that came to her mind was, _Since when?_ A month, then, probably a little more? Her heart, her very breath, seemed to cease when she realized…The last night beneath the opera house…

_I prayed to you, Mary,_ she thought. _Heavenly Father, I begged You, I _begged _You! Did You have to do this to me? Oh, please, please don't let this happen_. _I asked You nicely_…_and still I conceived_. God had a reason for everything, she had always believed. Even now, she had to cling to that belief, or she would die with anxiety.

Her thinking drifted then to her husband. _How am I going to tell him? _She sat there, completely frozen, trying to think of the best way. However she did it, he was not going to be happy. Would he lay all the blame at her feet? It was not as if he tried to do anything about it, except to tell her he was absolutely certain that _his _child would be cursed as he was. After all, he himself had been born that way, without apparent cause.

_If you found yourself with child, I would provide you with a remedy to end it_._ I learned much from the gypsies, you see_…

Oh, surely not. Surely he would never try such a thing. She would never allow it!

She could go up to him right at that moment—as he was experimenting on the piano, away from the fierce glare of a sun just preparing to set—and get it over with in a rush. Or she could drop hints, warming him up to the idea, before clarifying it. What if she just let it go, not saying a word until he put all the clues together and came to the conclusion on his own? She doubted he'd had much exposure to expectant mothers before; perhaps he would not recognize the signs until it was too late to do anything about it. Perhaps.

He had to _appreciate _the idea, at the very least. He _had _to be open to it. Could she possibly make him want a baby as much as she did? She turned and stood with her back against the side of the house and brainstormed until her forehead ached. Erik was playing something surprisingly sweet; she could just hear it drifting from across the house.

Giving herself more time, she bent down to the ground and dug a hole in the loose soil, kicking in the mess that had been in her stomach until only a few minutes ago. She dunked her hands into a nearby bucket of water and wiped them on her apron before going back inside. Supper was momentarily forgotten as she crossed to the other side of the house. She stood in the doorway of the parlor, watching Erik play. How much more she preferred the piano's sound to the organ!

"Erik," she whispered.

He stopped playing and twisted in his seat to look up at her questioningly. She smiled vaguely, moving to sit beside him. She looked down to see his hands still resting on the keys and gently covered one with her own, leaning against him to place her head against his shoulder. Now grass and sunshine was added to Erik's scent; eyes closed, she drank it in. With a clench in her stomach, she remembered what she had to tell him, and the lovely feeling faded away. She looked up into his face. His smile was slight.

"I love this house, Erik," she finally said. "I love being here with you."

"When did you decide this?" he asked.

She chuckled softly, "I've always thought that. I've just been distracted by all the work." She reached up to brush her fingers against his lips. "We're safe now, aren't we? No one's going to find us out here. Everything is going to be all right."

His brow became slightly furrowed. "Yes, it's all right."

"Thank you," she said, feeling tears fighting their way to the surface. She moved her hand up to his head and took a gentle hold, her eyes pleading. He moved his head down to kiss her determinedly, if gently as well. She felt as though he were reaching down and taking the air right out of her chest. It was impossible to deny the comfort she gleaned from being so close to him, even when her heart was so troubled. And even then, she knew he loved her. God willing, it would hold steady, even when she had to deliver such a blow to his peace of mind. That is, if he ever did have peace of mind.

"We can build another life out here, Erik," she whispered when their mouths had parted ways once more. "You can start all over again."

"That's what you wanted all along, wasn't it?"

"Yes." She wrapped her arms around his middle and placed one cheek against his chest. "If only you wanted children." She held her breath, waiting for the slow, irritated intake of his, the inevitable stiffening of every muscle in his body. She hardly had to wait at all.

"You certainly know how to freeze a man's passion."

"If only I knew why—"

"Why?" His voice was low and hinted at surprise. He took her shoulders and pushed her slightly away from him, so he could look down into her face. "You have to ask me why? Have you not seen enough? Have you not _heard _enough? _Mon dieu_, I don't even know why _I _was born this way. Must I pass it on to a child who will suffer as I did, when not even _one _person should have borne such misery in a single lifetime?" When a few silent tears rolled down Marguerite's face, Erik pulled her to him again. "This is just a whim," he said, more softly this time. "Just a little whim of yours, and it will pass."

"I could be the mother you never had, Erik, for your own child," she said, choking. "You could be the father who was never there. Your life could have been so different if your mother showed you love."

"Perhaps," he said. "But it did not happen. And now is not the time to speak of it."

"There will never be a better time."

"True enough. Then we shall never speak of it." Erik closed his eyes and sighed, standing up from the piano and crossing over to lean against the fireplace. "I wish you would just forget about this."

She had. For a few days, she had tried, but was jolted back into reality. Soon Erik would be, too. "I wish you wouldn't try to forget it," she said. "Do you think me so petty that I would not love a child of ours if he were born with…?"

"No," Erik said, "but you don't need that burden. And neither does a child."

"Then I am weak and could not bear it?"

Erik gritted his teeth and turned his head away from her. She was completely missing the point! "I did _not _mean that. Loving me is hard enough, I'm sure, so I don't know why you would want to inflict any more onto yourself. To me, it seems to be a superfluous trouble. My own mother could only just barely keep herself from beating the breath out of me. Sometimes I think she dared to try it."

Marguerite shook her head. For now, she did not want to hear any more about Erik's childhood. Neither of them had the greatest parents, though she knew she had gotten the better pair, but the opportunity to be superior had arrived. How was she going to convince him to even accept the _idea_ of fatherhood?

"But I _want _to love! Erik, I promise you I will love our child with everything you never had, and neither of you will suffer for it."

Her eyelids stretched open almost beyond their ability. Her hand flew to her mouth as though to stuff the words back inside, but there was no returning them now. Erik snapped his head back to stare at her skeptically, and then his eyes narrowed—very slowly—in suspicion. She felt slightly queasy again as the blood rushed from her face as though released from a dam. Time had stopped; the air hung thick and tense, but not another word passed between the two of them. Erik stared at her in disbelief, and she wore an expression of utmost guilt.

"I hope," he finally said, slowly and deliberately, "that was merely an ignorant and untrue slip of your tongue." He waited for her confirmation, but it did not come. She only shook her head, just as warily.

"I was only trying to make you attuned to the inevitable," she said.

"No," he hissed, "_not _inevitable. It ends _now_."

"You can't do that, Erik. You can't take this from me!"

"Damn it, woman, don't you understand what you are doing? A madman's—a demon's spawn has taken root in your womb, and you would give it life?"

"Yes, because it's yours, and you are neither!"

"That child will not thank you for letting it live. You are doing it a grave disservice." Marguerite bent her head, not in submission, but simply because she could no longer bear to see the intensity in his eyes. Erik paused, his gaze roving the room and finding nowhere else to alight. "Well, I shall remedy it soon enough," he added, sweeping from the room.

When the door closed, she dashed to the window. He was headed to the stables.

* * *

Nadir was startled from his reading when he heard the well-known burst and slam of the doors. Quickly recovering, he got to his feet with surprising agility for his age. Coming around a corner, he saw Erik digging frantically in a pile of loose hay, uncovering several crates and a dark bag from Paris. His visible lack of control was weird and alarming; the Persian was loath to interrupt it. He hung back and watched for a moment, until Erik abruptly stopped moving and turned his head up. Their eyes met immediately, with not so much as an askew glance from him, giving Nadir cause to believe Erik was aware of his presence the entire time. The man's acuity was truly frightening.

"What are you doing, Erik?"

"I must assemble a potion," he said, turning back to a crate and wrenching it open.

It was probably foolish to ask, but Nadir did it anyway. "For what purpose?" He received another glance which plainly told him that if Erik answered, it would be with reluctance.

"To spare certain individuals from unwarranted grief." He saw Nadir's confusion, but did not say anything else to clarify. Silently he held up vials one by one, examining their contents. Three of them were set aside. When he was satisfied, he gathered them up with a meaningful nod to his friend and left. Nadir was suddenly filled with alarm, and he pursued him out into the stretch of grass between stables and house.

"Erik, what in the name of Allah are you doing?"

Erik stopped and turned to him with a falsely bemused expression. "Marguerite is not herself. I'm merely giving her my most knowledgeable and—humble—assistance."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing that doesn't affect most women at some point or another. But she doesn't need the extra trouble. She doesn't want my help, either, but she's going to get it anyway."

"She is with child, isn't she." It was not a question.

"You catch on quickly," Erik said.

"I was married before, Erik, and I had a son, if you'll recall. He adored you."

Erik pressed his lips together. "I remember. What has Reza to do with anything now?" He ignored the pain that passed through Nadir's dark, depthless eyes.

"I had a son whose life you took."

Erik's face went slack. "I saved him from so much pain. He was in a terrible condition. And you. You _knew _he was never going to recover."

"And yet there was some time he still could have had on this earth. I never stopped wondering if I had done the right thing in allowing you to feed him that…whatever you used. I still miss him, Erik. My only son. I would give anything to have him back, even for that brief time he would have had left, had you not seen fit to take matters into your own hands. _Anything_."

Erik was silent. Nadir watched his Adam's apple move as he tried to swallow.

"You had years with Reza. Marguerite will never have to grow attached to a…baby. She will never see it, or the horrible disfigurement I surely have passed on."

Nadir glared at him, finally comprehending. "Is that what this is about? Your own sullen, sorry pride?"

Erik came very close to baring his teeth like a cornered wolf. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not. I never do, it seems…when I've gotten to the heart of the matter."

"Shut up!"

"I don't think Marguerite will let you do this. So what _will _you do, Erik? Tie her up and force that concoction down her throat? Betray her trust forever? She'll never be grateful to you if you make her part with her baby before the proper time. Her love might not survive it, did you consider that?"

This last spouting was too much. Erik lunged at Nadir, closing his thin, powerful fingers around the dark throat. Nadir gagged and tried to form a decent hold on Erik and break the grip, but he could not. Erik pulled him down until he was flat on his back, Erik's half a face hanging over him, contorting and spitting with fury.

"_Don't speak to me of this!_" he bellowed. "Leave it alone, do you understand? Stay out of it! You've always done this, daroga, _always_, intruding where you don't belong, telling me what you think when I never ask you. It ends now, do you hear? It ends…_now!_" With that, he stood up abruptly, and Nadir's hands went to his own neck as he coughed and desperately pulled breath into his lungs. Erik snatched up the bottles he had dropped, amazingly unbroken, and continued on to the house.

The Persian waited a few seconds before getting back up to follow Erik. When he went through the back door, clutching the bottles, Nadir hung back. There was about a minute of dangerous silence, and then the crash of an upturned table. Adrenaline coursing through him, Nadir sprinted to the door and flung it open. The kitchen table was on its side, onions scattered all over the floor, and a knife lying ominously in the doorway. Erik was nowhere to be seen, but when Nadir headed toward the parlor, he heard his footsteps upstairs. He must have been almost hysterical if he allowed his feet to stomp.

The Persian looked up to see Erik coming down the staircase, stopping halfway, his hand gripping the banister with twice the strength he had just used on Nadir's throat.

"She's not here."

* * *

**To Be Continued…**

**Or, The End, if you don't like the story enough to read the sequel. ;-)**

**A/N: And so, with this evil cliffhanger I just know I will get Punjabbed for, I part with the last chapter of my beloved story…my first fanfiction, my first story that I actually finished. Thank you to everyone who read this—you have no idea how much it means to me. I've loved writing it, and I'm sad to let it go. **

**But then, I do have the sequel coming! I don't know when it will be posted, but I've got a good start on the first chapter. Plus the E/C, as well. Cheers, everyone!**


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